






















































THE SUTTON 








PAPERS 


































































































- 



























































At the Sign of 

THE CUPID AND LION 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 
by Selwyn Jepson 

THE MASTER CRIMINAL 

by J. Jefferson Farjeon 

THE DIAL DETECTIVE LIBRARY 

I. GREAT DETECTIVE STORIES 
from Voltaire to Wilkie Collins 

II. GREAT DETECTIVE STORIES 

from Gaboriau to Anna Katherine Green 


1924 




1 

THE SUTTON PAPERS 


BY 

SELWYN JfEPSON 

Author of “ The Qualified Adventurer ** 
‘'That Fellow McArthur ” etc. 



Xincoln flDaclDeaflb 

THE DIAL PRESS 

NEW YORK, MCMXZIV 








?z* 

■hi 


Copyright, 1924, 

By Dial Press, Incorporated 


PRINTED IN TJ. S. A. 


VAIL - BALLOU PRESS, INC. 
BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK 


SEP 17 i924 \ 

©C1A800868C. 



^5 i/“ jf 


TO 

GEA DE ALENCAR 















THE SUTTON PAPERS 










CHAPTER I 


It is probably a little surprising that anybody 
should want to write a story about Bedford James 
Sutton, and nobody will be more surprised than 
B. J. himself when he finds out that some one has. 
He is, after all, an ordinary young man, but with 
perhaps more ingenuity than most. However, it 
certainly would never have been written if it had 
not been that an odd array of unusual circumstances 
gathered him up and wove about him a tight web 
from which at first he could not, and later would 
not, extricate himself. 

A short description of B. J. may be useful, for it 
is much easier to see a man doing things and having 
things done to him if one has some idea of what he 
looks like. B. J. at the time of this story is twenty- 
six years of age. He has a long, thin face of which 
the cheeks sink a little more and in which the mouth 
is thinner than is usual with a young man. His hair 
is very black, and his eyes are that particular blue- 
green one sees in the sea when the sun follows the 
rain over it. He always wears rather beautiful 
clothes cut by an excellent tailor, and he carries 
them on his well-proportioned body with a some¬ 
what unusual grace. 


[9] 


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When he speaks one is aware of a contradiction 
to his general air and appearance, from which one 
might expect a deep, hollow voice to proceed—as 
Conrad somewhere describes it—as from the bot¬ 
tom of a well, but it is not like that. To put it 
poorly and inadequately, it is a voice with a smile 
in it. It arrests the attention and interest of the 
hearer at once, and although B. J. never seems to 
have anything really important to say people listen 
to him as if he had. 

For the most part his conversation is mono¬ 
syllabic, but occasionally he bursts into a certain 
loquacity that is best described as a delicious succes¬ 
sion of slang phrases punctuated and paragraphed 
by extraordinarily friendly smiles. 

He makes friends, and by the word I mean real 
friends, in unbelievable numbers. Dogs, children, 
maiden ladies, and errand-boys fall before the on¬ 
slaught of his friendliness with a surprising eager¬ 
ness. I do not believe one can walk down the quiet¬ 
est, most unpopulated side-street in London without 
meeting a friend of his—or some one who wishes to 
become a friend of his. 

I remember he used to amuse me at school—we 
were at St. Paul’s together—by making odd, squeaky 
noises with his teeth and tongue at the sparrows 
which nested, and still do nest, I expect, in the thick 
ivy that covers the walls of the swimming baths. In 
response one or more birds would flutter down and 
hover about him, sometimes settling on his head or 
[ 10 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


shoulders. It was for this reason that we called him 
“Birdie Bedford,” and he was without exception, the 
most popular boy in the school. I can still remem¬ 
ber the continual joy it gave me to be known and 
recognized as his best friend. 

So much for his friendliness, but, before we leave 
it, add to it the strong strain of Don Quixote which 
in him is always likely to result in surprising things. 

I have only just learnt about his home and people, 
for before he told me this story—which I have con¬ 
siderably edited, by the way—they had existed in my 
mind only as vague institutions situated somewhere 
or other equally vague. That they were “up North” 
I knew, but nothing more. Probably he was not 
in the habit of mentioning them because he did not 
get on with them; it would be like him, for he stu¬ 
diously avoided uncomfortable and unpleasant things 
in conversation, and, indeed, in everything else. 

He has a father, and, knowing what I do of the 
latter, I cannot conceive how Providence became 
so illogical as to place B. J. as his son. The father 
is hard, as hard as nails, while B. J. is soft, with a 
warm, plastic generosity of feeling and emotion 
which is almost a fault in him. 

At the time this story opens we have him as a 
typical young man about town, with two years’ solid 
practice at doing nothing behind him, and at the 
moment in a state of upheaval because he has be¬ 
come engaged to Miriam Blanchard, a young woman 
with a strong sense of her political and economic in- 

[ii] 


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dependence; the first she undoubtedly possesses, 
and the second she will undoubtedly acquire. 

Let us get on with it. 


II 

It was one o’clock in the morning, a November 
morning, and B. J. stood pathetically on the steps 
of No 22A Collingham Gardens, Kensington, and 
surveyed with unhappy eyes the door that had just 
closed on his fiancee. 

He was assimilating the fact that, however late 
or however early it might be, Miriam always had 
the last word. Accordingly, she had just had it, or 
rather them—for she was of a naturally conversa¬ 
tional temperament—and they rankled still in his 
heart. She had spoken of the diner dansant they 
had just left, and she was, it appeared, particular on 
the subject. 

“And the orchestra was rotten,” she had said 
from the steps. “Rotten! The floor was sticky, 
and the place was dull. Those shaded lights give 
me the pip. You know they do. And that girl 
with the green frock—it was exactly like mine. 
You’ll have to start thinking, Beddy, my boy, or I 
shall have to find some one who can. You want a 
rest, Beddy, a long rest, and I think I shall have to 
give it you. Good-night.” 

The door had closed upon these words with more 
violence than was necessary merely to shut it, and 
[ 12 ] 


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forthwith the chill of the early morning had clutched 
the heart of Bedford James. After a moment, 
however, he pulled his opera hat more firmly down 
upon his head and began to walk home to his flat in 
Half Moon Street. 

At the corner of Collingham Gardens he stopped 
and said: 

“Dash it! How could I know a beastly girl 
would have the same beastly frock? And I hate 
being called ‘Beddy.’ It’s a beastly name.” 

After which he walked in a more determined 
fashion, and by the time he had turned into Crom¬ 
well Road was explaining to himself that Miriam 
had had a rotten life, and that it was his proper duty 
to try to make it easy for her. Poor girl! She 
probably had every right to be peeved. But 
“Beddy”! “Beddy” still stuck like a burr in his 
mind. It was a horrible name. 

However, being of the kind provided by a 
thoughtful Providence for the Miriams of the world 
to wipe their wilful feet upon, B. J. began to for¬ 
give his particular one, as he invariably and inevi¬ 
tably did, and by the time he saw her again he would 
be prepared to crawl guiltily before her. 

The stage was set for the drama, and but for one 
or two little hitches it would probably have been 
played. Miriam Blanchard herself was firm in the 
belief that it would be, as she brushed out her hair 
in her pink-and-white bedroom. Indeed, so sure 
was she that she did not trouble to picture it—it 
[ 13 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

was always the same—but concerned herself with 
speculation as to the exact and concrete form her 
Beddy’s contrition would take. 

Last time it had been a ruby bracelet. 

But we mentioned the hitches. The first—and 
there were three altogether—was a letter which B. 
J. had received that morning, and which he had con¬ 
templated with some perplexity and not a little dis¬ 
comfort throughout the day. It had made him 
morose at dinner with Miriam, and normally his 
was a sunny disposition. It came from his father, 
and had run like this: 

Dear Bedford, 

You have wasted your time long enough, and your demand 
for a further sum in excess of your quarter’s allowance has 
shown me this. You must come up to Manchester and 
start work in the office, where I can find a place for you as 
my private secretary. I suppose the stupidest thing I ever 
did was to let you go to London, and it is high time this 
state of affairs came to an end. 

I enclose this packet for you to look after. Look after 
it. Its existence must not be known to certain people up 
here. I will wire for you to come when I want you. 
Bring the packet with you. 

Your affectionate father, 

Peter Sutton 

It was enough to worry any young man who had 
been enjoying a delightfully unearned income for 
two years. 


[14] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


“Work!” ran the thoughts of B. J. “Work! 
How perfectly fantastic!” 

As he walked he crinkled the letter with its thin 
enclosure, which he was carrying in a wallet in his 
hip pocket. 

This letter, then, and its packet, was the first 
hitch, and it undoubtedly was directly responsible 
for the other two. 

The second came within a few minutes of his ar¬ 
riving at Hyde Park Corner. It was one of those 
fine, crisp November nights which usually precede 
a fog. The air was keen, and played refreshingly 
about the brow of the harassed B. J.; the market 
carts on their way to Covent Garden were grinding 
eastward along Knightsbridge, the drivers asleep 
over their reins and the horses plodding faithfully 
along the route they knew so well. 

B. J. felt that he ought to want to sing—usually 
he did—and that things should be wrong with his 
world irritated and annoyed him. If only she 
hadn’t called him “Beddy”! 

So the night proceeded dawnward and B. J. to¬ 
ward his flat. 

Then he came to the coffee-stall at Hyde Park 
Corner, and, with a view to dispersing the black and 
unaccustomed cloud that hovered over him, ambled 
up to the stall and ordered a cup of coffee. Four 
taxi-drivers observed that the night was fine, and 
had another cup of coffee each at his expense. The 
black cloud lifted somewhat. 

[15] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

During the desultory conversation that followed, 
mainly concerned with the losers of yesterday and 
the winners of to-morrow, B. J. had little time or 
attention to give to the fifth member of the gather¬ 
ing, who was a small man wearing a pink muffler. 
He was leaning against the side of the coffee-stall 
and surrounding a large plateful of sausage rolls 
with an intentness that forbade him joining in the 
conversation. B. J. had his back to him. 

A quarter of an hour later the party broke up. 
The taxi-drivers returned to their cabs, B. J. con¬ 
tinued on his way up Piccadilly, and the man with 
the pink muffler wiped his mouth lusciously with the 
back of his hand and started to follow B. J. He 
was smiling slightly, and his hands were dug down 
to the bottom of his jacket pockets. 

Opposite the Junior Athenaeum he drew level 
with the young man and said hoarsely: 

“Excuse me, sir, but I believe yer dropped this 
’ere,” and he held out the wallet that had been in 
B. J.’s hip pocket. 

B. J. looked at it for a space. Then he clapped 
his hand to his empty pocket and said: 

“Well, Pm damned! What an extraordinary 
thing! Thank you very much. I say, you know, 

I’m most awfully bucked. I’d no idea- Where 

did you find it?” 

“By that there cawfy-stall, sir; just where you 
was standing. I sort o’ guessed it was yourn when 
I see’d it.” 

[16] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 


B. J. was not exaggerating when he said he was 
most awfully bucked. He was. He remembered 
the thin but valuable packet he was looking after. 
He opened the wallet. 

“Well, now—what d’you say about that?” he 
exclaimed. “The money’s gone!” 

The packet, however, was still in its place. 

“Strike me!” remarked the man with the pink 
muffler. “Wot rotten ’ard luck!” 

B. J. looked helplessly at the empty note-case; 
then fished in his trouser pocket and produced a 
shilling and two halfpennies. It was obviously an 
insufficient sum with which to reward such an honest 
fellow. 

“That’s all the change I’ve got,” he said. “I 
wonder if you’d care—er—to walk along to my 
flat? It’s just along here, and I’ll be able to find 
something for you. And a drink, perhaps. How 
about it?” 

“I don’t mind if I do, sir. Thank you 
kindly,” said the honest fellow, and once more 
wiped his mouth lusciously with the back of his 
hand. 

“Come along, then,” said B. J., and they fell into 
step together. 

For a few yards they walked in silence, until B. 
J. discovered that the man in the pink muffler was 
shooting covert and inquiring glances at him. 
They were almost suspicious. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked him. 

[17] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“Look ’ere. Is this on the straight?” said the 
other. 

B. J. observed his face in the light of a street 
lamp. It was thin, shrewd, and incredibly sharp. 
The eyes, the nose, the mouth, the chin, the whole 
outline of his head, were sharp as if they had been 
pared down to their most angular with a keen- 
bladed knife. 

“On the straight?” B. J. was puzzled. 

“Well, one does ’ave to be so careful these 
days,” said the sharp-faced one. “One never 
knows, yer know.” 

He sounded relieved at the puzzled tone of his 
host. 

Suddenly B. J. spoke. 

“Do you know anything about work?” he said. 

“Work? Work? Wot sort o’ work? I’ve 
done most kinds, one way an’ another; I ’ate ’em 
all.” 

B. J. racked his brains. To him work was just 
work. So far in his life he had never had to clas¬ 
sify it or differentiate between one kind of work 
and another. 

It was all work, and as such unpleasant to think 
about. He knew that, and up to to-day had kept 
his mind firmly off it. 

“You know—in an office,” he said. 

“No,” said the other. “I don’t. I don’t ’old 
with offices. I likes summat that ’as life in it. I 
likes to move around if I must work.” 

[ 1 8 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“I see. What are you doing at present? For¬ 
give the impertinence, but I-” 

He was interrupted by another glance of 
suspicion. 

“Look ’ere!” said the sharp-faced man, in a tone 
of asperity. “What’s the lay? I don’t like this a 
bit, not a bit I don’t. Come acrost wiv it, can’t 
yer? Are you a beak?” 

“A beak?” 

“Yes. A beak, a cop, a ’tec, a bull—wot you 
dam’ well like!” 

“You mean a policeman?” 

“I ain’t goin’ to be played wiv, I ain’t! If you 
think you can land me, you’re-” 

By this time he was backing off the pavement into 
the road, and B. J. was watching him with some 
alarm and a good deal of interest. 

“It’s all right, old bean. I’m not a policeman. 
Are you afraid of ’em? Seem kindly enough old 
johnnies, what I’ve seen of ’em!” 

“Huh!” remarked the other, but he came back 
on to the pavement. 

B. J. was forgetting his own black cloud in the 
discovery of another soul who was similarly shad¬ 
owed. This time it was policemen, and to the sim¬ 
ple mind of B. J. it was a singularly queer sort of 
thing for a man to be so affected by. However, 
this odd individual was obviously depressed by the 
thought of policemen, and that he should be de¬ 
pressed by anything called forth all B. J.’s sympa- 
[! 9 ] 




THE SUTTON PAPERS 

thy. Besides, the chap had behaved very well in 
the matter of the wallet. A less honest man would 
have stuck to it, even if the money in it had already 
been removed by some one else. 

So he clapped his fellow-sufferer on the back and 
said cheerfully: 

“Buck up, old top! You’re not done yet. 
You’ll feel a lot better after a peg or two. A man 
never is up to the mark at two o’clock in the morn¬ 
ing. Not to my mind, at any rate.” 

Somewhat reassured, but still puzzled, the man 
with the pink muffler consented to accompany him, 
and they proceeded. At the end of a ten minutes’ 
walk several interesting subjects had been discussed, 
which meant that B. J.’s extraordinary knack of get¬ 
ting on well with his fellow-creatures was at work. 
From the squirrels in the Zoo to the children of 
his housekeeper’s aunt he exercised over everything 
that breathed a peculiar spell of friendliness that 
seemed invincible in the face of any opposition, un¬ 
daunted by any obstacle. He must have exercised 
this spell over the unwilling Albert de Vere, as the 
man with the pink muffler called himself, to an un¬ 
usual degree. 

Albert de Vere thawed, his suspicions dwindled, 
his natural, self-protective shell cracked, and before 
he knew how it had happened he found himself to 
be the official valet to the person of Bedford James 
Sutton, of Half Moon Street. And, what was more, 
discovered himself to be in a state of ecstatic joy at 
[ 20 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

the prospect. He could think.of nothing he would 
rather do, of nobody he would rather be. He 
wrung Bedford James warmly by the hand and said: 

“I’ll be the dandiest valet you ever ’ad, sir. You 
watch me. I know the ropes, too, an’ we’ll ’ave the 
time of our young lives, not ’alf we won’t! We’ll 
make ’em sit up in the drorin’-rooms of Mayfair! 
Halbert, me boy, you’re on a good thing, you are! 
Cushy ain’t the word!” 

B. J. was perhaps a little perturbed at this vision 
of future joy, but he was far more pleased by the 
thought that he had found a fellow-mortal who 
suffered from black clouds and who disliked work 
as heartily as he did himself. Also, he was amazed 
when Albert de Vere—the surname, he told him¬ 
self, was probably assumed in order to evade the 
terror-striking policeman—suddenly produced a lit¬ 
tle wad of banknotes from his boot and pressed 
them upon him with the words: 

“We’re on the square, we are, an’ Pm doin’ my 
part. Halbert de Vere never went back on a pal! 
I took ’em out of yer wallit.” 

This discovery—that Albert had played a trick 
on him—was a trifle surprising, but it did not occur 
to B. J. as being dishonest in the true sense of the 
word, but rather an ingenious method of avoiding 
work, since in Albert’s case there was no obliging 
father to help in the matter. Such a view, if not 
in strict accordance with the current views of mo¬ 
rality, at least struck at the root of the business. 

[ 21 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

He looked forward to an interesting life with Albert 
de Vere in attendance. If the worst came to the 
worst, and he had to go to Manchester, the hard¬ 
ness of his lot would be mitigated by Albert’s 
support, 

The black cloud had almost entirely lifted, and, 
except for the memory of “Beddy,” the soul of B. 
J. was untroubled. He listened to the ecstatic Al¬ 
bert with unruffled tranquillity. He had forgiven 
Miriam, and was quite prepared to do all in his 
power to placate her the moment he saw her again. 
But the third hitch had yet to come. And this— 
which startled Bedford James Sutton into a state of 
unparalleled excitement, effectually upsetting the bal¬ 
ance of his even life—occurred, or rather awaited 
him, in front of the flat in Half Moon Street. It 
was on the mat before the front door, to be exact. 

B. J. and his new valet climbed the stairs, the 
lift-man being in bed, to the top of the building, 
where one could dwell immune from the evils of 
having a flat above one and the street too near. 
B. J. led the way, and was therefore the first to see 
the dark object in vague outline against the white 
paint of the door. He stopped short and peered at 
it, stroking his chin thoughtfully. It was quite still, 
but in an odd way suggested latent animation. Al¬ 
bert de Vere reached his side, and peered also. 

“It’s a skirt!” he ejaculated between his teeth. 

“A what?” 

“Female! Look aht, sir!” 

[ 22 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

Albert did not hold with his employer’s incautious 
manner of investigation, for B. J. had stooped 
quickly with an outstretched hand. It touched a 
soft shoulder beneath thin silk. 

“I say!” he said. “Here, I say! What’s the 
matter?” 

The woman did not stir. With a sweep of his 
arm he reached for the electric-light switch, pressed 
it down, and remembered that the outside lights 
were turned off at midnight by the janitor down¬ 
stairs. With fingers that trembled a little he struck 
a match, while Albert de Vere muttered warnings 
and advice. The flickering yellow flame was inade¬ 
quate, and showed them little more than they had 
seen already. It went out after a second or so, and 
B. J. said quickly: 

“We’d better get her inside. She’s ill or 
something.” 

He opened the door with his key, supporting the 
still body with his other hand, switched on the hall 
light, and, assisted by a suspicious and doubtful Al¬ 
bert, carried the inert form into his study and laid 
it carefully on the Chesterfield. 

Albert stood by the door in an attitude of ex¬ 
treme alertness. 

To B. J.’s surprise—though what he had expected 
it is hard to imagine—he found that the pitiful ob¬ 
ject that lay on his Chesterfield was a young and de¬ 
cidedly attractive girl. He saw her face first, and 
examined it closely, uttering indistinct words as he 

[23] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

did so. It was an astoundingly pretty face, and the 
stillness of it emphasized to an extraordinary degree 
its evenness of feature. 

B. J. was, as these things go, somewhat of an ex¬ 
pert, for one cannot spend two years doing nothing 
in town without becoming expert; at least it would 
be difficult, especially for a young man of B. J.’s 
friendly spirit. 

This girl, then, had an oval face, with pale, trans¬ 
lucent skin. A faint tinge of red, the merest sus¬ 
picion, like that which comes on a white cloud some 
way distant from the sunset, was on her cheeks. 
Her eyes were, of course, closed, but the sweep of 
lashes promised beauty with no uncertainty, and B. 
J. found himself longing for them to lift and un¬ 
curtain the eyes behind. Her hair was tousled, 
and wreathed a straight brow with little dark brown 
curls; it fell in thick coils on to her shoulders and 
breast, which rose and fell softly under a tight 
black bodice. The extreme whiteness of her neck 
where the circle of the bodice ended was dazzling. 

With some reluctance B. J. dragged his eyes away 
from her face and looked at her clothes. Again he 
was surprised, for they were little better than rags. 
Rags, with the face of a princess—at least a princess 
in a fairy tale! True, the black frock was of silk, 
but rusty and stained. It was patched here and 
there, and then, as if there had come a point where 
its owner could no longer cope with it, the patches 
came to an end, and tears and holes began; the hem 

[24] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

was tattered, as were the ends of the short sleeves, 
the whole effect being one of hideous poverty where 
there should have been comfortable wealth. The 
picture of the girl as she lay there, unconscious, 
ragged, and pitifully beautiful, reached the heart 
of B. J. with something that was very near a stab of 
physical pain. She was very cold, for the miserable 
frock was meagre indeed, and offered little protec¬ 
tion from the November night. 

“Good lord, how perfectly horrible!” he mut¬ 
tered, and hastily put a cushion behind the poor 
head, aware as he did so of the intense softness of 
her hair. 

He wished she would open her eyes. 

Albert de Vere came farther into the room, and 
lost some of his suspicious alertness, saying: 

“She’s bin up ag’in it, she ’as.” 

“What’s the matter with her? Get some water 
from the next room—on the washstand.” 

“ ’Ungry, that’s about it,” remarked Albert, and 
he went to fetch the water. 

“Hurry, man!” B. J. shot at him, and began chaf¬ 
ing the small hands. 

He noticed that they were moderately clean and 
very soft. She had not worked with them. While 
Albert was gone he had time to wonder what had 
brought her to such straits, and to his door. He 
had certainly never set eyes on her before, for if he 
had he would have recognized her at once—hers 
was not a face one could forget. He assumed that 

[25] 


\ 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

it was pure chance, and that she had simply wan¬ 
dered—her broken shoes and torn stockings were 
muddy—and wandering, unconscious feet had car¬ 
ried her to Half Moon Street and up the stairs to 
his flat. What was to be done about it all he did 
not know; that she must spend the night on the 
Chesterfield was obvious. And Albert thought she 
was hungry. 

He came back with the water and a tumbler, and 
B. J. poured some between the girl’s pale lips. 
While he bathed her face with a handkerchief 
dipped in the water he directed Albert to the larder, 
with instructions to bring what suitable food he 
could find. 

“There ought to be a cold chicken and soup. If 
there is soup, warm it on the electric cooker in the 
kitchen. Bring the chicken in here. I’ll cut it up.” 

Albert again departed. He seemed to be falling 
swiftly and easily into his new job—which, in view 
of his previous life of chequered ups and downs, 
vicissitudes and sudden emergencies, was not so re¬ 
markable as it might seem. He was probably used 
to finding his way, and other things, in other men’s 
homes. At all events, he returned after a short 
absence, carrying a tray. A cold chicken, a plate, a 
knife and fork, salt, and all the necessary appurte¬ 
nances were on it; also a saucepan of soup jelly, and 
the electric cooker, which he proceeded to connect 
to a reading lamp. 


[26] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“I thought Pd ’ot it in ’ere, sir, in case you needed 
me,” he said. 

“Good man!” said B. J., and seated himself on 
the edge of the Chesterfield, watching the pale, tran¬ 
quil face against the dark cushion. 

The water seemed to have had a certain effect. 
She was breathing a little deeper, and the red in her 
cheeks had spread under the skin as though the 
dying sun had passed out from behind the mists and 
widened the area of pink on the distant cloud. It 
was the most elusive colour in the world, and B. J. 
tried to determine where it began and where it 
ended—and failed. More and more was he wish¬ 
ing that she would open her eyes. 

At this point he shook himself and passed his 
hand over his eyes in perplexity. It was queer that 
the business should affect him so; certainly he had 
never played friend in need to a starving girl before, 
and this was an unexpectedly pretty girl. It must 
be that. Yet he had seen so many pretty girls. 
Why, Miriam- 

The thought of Miriam at such a moment came 
like a douche of cold water after a comfortably 
warm bath. He shivered, and was conscious of an 
idiotic sense of guilt. Without consulting past ex¬ 
perience, or anything else, indeed, but his instincts, 
he realized that Miriam would not view this early 
morning adventure with the kindly eye it obviously 
deserved. She would be unreasonable, and he men- 

[27] 



/ 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

tally arranged that she should not learn of it. B. J. 
was not secretive or deceitful, but there was no point 
in running one’s head into a brick wall, especially 
if the brick wall had no reason for existing at the 
particular place it did. These thoughts brought 
him back to “Beddy,” and swift upon this the ques¬ 
tion: Would the girl on the Chesterfield offend by 
calling him by the hated name? 

Here he pulled himself together again, and began 
feeding her carefully with the hot soup. The first 
mouthful had an instant effect. The lashes quiv¬ 
ered, lifted, lowered, and then lifted again, and B. J. 
caught his breath. He saw her eyes. 

I have seen her eyes, too, since then, and, like 
B. J., I realize that any attempt to describe them is 
futile. How can one put on paper, in print, on the 
page of a book, the golden grey-brown of them, 
the kindness of them, the spirit that looks out of 
them? Amber? Aye, with the sun on it. Gold? 
Perhaps; but then there are the little flecks of grey 
and brown. The sort of grey and brown I have 
seen on the sunlit rocks of Anglesey. But yet I 
only think of amber because it is beautiful with the 
sun on it, and gold because it is precious as well as 
beautiful, and the rocks of Anglesey because they 
are wild as well as precious and beautiful. 

But this is B. J.’s experience of this girl’s eyes, 
not mine. The eyes I see are even more beautiful— 
but that is a story I am going to tell another time. 

B. J. did not realize then, as he does now, what 

[28] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


was happening to him when he looked into the eyes 
of the girl who had come into his life so suddenly, 
and she looked into his. He is not obtuse, B. J., 
but he certainly did not understand until later on. 
And yet, with all his experience, he ought to have 
seen it at once. 

At first she gazed at him without comprehension, 
or so it seemed, then she became fully conscious, 
and discovered herself in a strange room with a 
strange young man sitting close to her, looking 
at her. She gave a little cry, and tried to sit 
upright. B. J. put out his hand and gently held her 
down. 

“It’s all right,” he said, in a voice that was 
queerly strained. “It’s all right. We are looking 
after you. This is soup. It will do you good.” 

She looked at him doubtfully, a little frightened 
probably, and then began drinking the soup in 
quick, short gulps; infinitely hungry gulps, until she 
remembered her manners; then she took it more 
slowly. After it she ate the chicken he gave her, 
and thanked him with her eyes. B. J. thrilled, and 
talked firmly to her. 

“You must not worry; we are looking after you. 
You can sleep on this couch, it’s quite comfortable. 
And in the morning you can tell me all about it, and 
I will see what can be done for you. If you want 
to wash or tidy your hair there’s a bathroom op¬ 
posite the door of this room.” 

Albert de Vere was putting the things back on 

[29] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

the tray, smiling secretly to himself after the manner 
he had when he was pleased with something. He 
also permitted himself to wink to himself. B. J. 
observed it when he rose from the edge of the 
Chesterfield, and blushed. Then he fetched rugs 
and blankets and arranged them over the girl. She 
was already asleep, curiously childlike and young, 
and with a sudden, abrupt movement he touched 
her hand, wondering at the same time what made 
him do it. He could think of no reason; he just 
wanted to do it, that was all. 

Then he went round the room, tidying it up, for 
their arrival had caused some disorder. He also 
took the thin packet from his wallet and put it in 
the small safe that stood on a table in the corner, 
closing the door on it, and placing the key in a 
pigeonhole of his desk. It had been foolish of him 
to carry the stupid thing about with him all day, 
as the episode at the coffee-stall showed. If it had 
not been for Albert de Vere he might have had a 
deuce of a lot of trouble getting it back. 

He knew enough of his father to realize that 
when he said a thing wanted looking after it 
wanted looking after. To have lost it at this 
particular time, when the uncomfortable suggestion 
of the old man’s about work was in the air, would 
have been little short of disastrous. He wondered 
what the packet contained. The pater had always 
been so confoundedly mum about his business—it 

[30] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


was like him to dump a fellow with valuable papers 
without a hint as to what they were. 

B. J. spent a long minute standing above the 
sleeping girl before he put out the lights, drinking 
in the wonder and beauty of her—and the mystery 
of her. Who was she? What had happened to 
her? What was her name? 

Then he left her, closing the door quietly, and 
went to show Albert where he was to sleep. The 
flat was large, and a spare room that was never 
used came in handy. B. J. had thought of putting 
the girl in it, but had been loath to disturb her 
sleep. And the Chesterfield was an excellent bed. 

Albert de Vere expressed his views of the evening 
in a few well-chosen words before entering his room. 

“I ain’t sure,” he said, “whether Pm standin’ 
on me ’ead or me ’eels, and if this is a bloomin’ 
dream—well, don’t let me wake up! An’ as fer 
that girl—she’s a stunner orl right, an’ fer that very 
good reason wants watchin’. I calls it fishy, that’s 
wot I do. ’Ow did she ’appen on this ^re place o’ 
yours instead o’ some one else’s? I’ve learnt that 
nothink ’appens in this world wivout a reason. 
What’s the reason o’ her?” 

B. J. laughed, wished him good-night, and, in a 
state of mind a thousand miles nearer heaven than 
the one in which he had left Miriam two hours 
ago, departed to bed. In some inexplicable way life 
had become suddenly interesting with an interest he 
[3i] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

had never known, tie looked forward to the 
morrow as a child looks forward to its own birthday 
party—as a day of mighty significance. 

He was not disappointed. It was. 

It began at roughly eight-fifteen, and was intro¬ 
duced to B. J. by Albert de Vere, who in shirt and 
trousers burst into his bedroom, chattering with 
excitement. 

“That girl!” he shouted. “That girl o’ yours— 
she’s gorn, an’ the room’s in such a mess as you 
never saw! Upside down ain’t the word! Desk 
ripped open like a sardine-tin. Yer books clutterin’ 
up the floor. Lumme, you come an’ look!” 

By this time B. J. was sitting up in bed and gazing 
at Albert de Vere. 

“Gone?” he said vaguely, and then, as full reali¬ 
zation came to him: “D’you mean she’s gone?” 

Albert de Vere, with both hands to the task of 
keeping up his trousers, waggled his head silently. 
He did not like the look on the boss’s face. 

B. J. sprang out of bed and was in the study be¬ 
fore Albert de Vere could say: “An’ the safe’s 
open.” 

B. J. discovered this for himself the moment he 
was in the room, which spoke so eloquently of a 
thorough, comprehensive search. It was all as 
Albert de Vere had said. The lid of the desk hung 
by one hinge; the drawers of it were either half in or 
wholly out of it, their contents higgledy-piggledy. 

[ 32 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

The books had all been taken from their shelves, 
and the carpet had been pulled back, exposing an 
unsightly patch of unstained boards. And the safe 
door was ajar. 

A particularly vicious tornado might have spent 
an honest twenty-five minutes in that particular 
study in Half Moon Street, and B. J. can be for¬ 
given for staggering back against the door, and say¬ 
ing, “Well, I’ll be damned!” several times. Then 
he dashed at the safe and ran fumbling fingers 
through the odd papers in it. 

The thin but valuable package had gone. 

B. J. sat down suddenly on the nearest chair and 
buried his head in his hands, a hundred emotions 
surging through him—fear, rage, disappointment— 
and disbelief that the girl of the early morning could 
be guilty of such an appalling crime; it was noth¬ 
ing less. A girl with those eyes—with that face! 
Heavens, what an actress! But it couldn’t be true! 
It wasn’t true! 

Albert de Vere, in the meantime, was searching 
amid the debris, muttering curses upon the race of 
women with a cold ferocity that somehow helped 
B. J. considerably. It is in much the same way that 
the rolling anger of the bass drum helps the violins 
in the agony of Tschaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony. 
Suddenly he stopped and came to his stricken 
master. 

“Look at this ’ere, the ’ussy!” he said, and 

[33] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

handed B. J. a sheet of his own crested note-paper. 
Written across it in a decidedly feminine hand were 
the words: 

“Thanks for the soup.” 

At this point a merciful intervention of Provi¬ 
dence gave B. J. an opportunity for physical move¬ 
ment, helping him to master his feelings. It came 
as a ring at the front-door bell. He jumped to his 
feet, reached the front door, dragged it open, wild¬ 
eyed and dishevelled from warring emotions, and 
faced a tall, dour man of middle age, whose face 
looked like tightly stretched yellow parchment. 
This uncompromising individual examined the 
young man carefully with a disapproval he made no 
effort to hide, and said: 

“Good-morning, Bedford!” 

B. J. damned the solid floor for being so deter¬ 
mined to support him when he wanted it to open 
and swallow him up, and said thickly: 

“Goo—good-morning—father!” 


[34] 


CHAPTER II 


For perhaps twenty seconds B. J. stood and gazed 
at his father, and every one of them brought him 
deeper and fuller realization of the awful fact that 
in some way he had got to tell him that the packet 
was missing—the packet to which the old chap at¬ 
tached so much importance; explain that it had been 
stolen by an unknown girl whom he had himself 
imported into the flat and there given her every 
facility for collecting the packet, even to placing it 
in the safe before her very eyes. The thought of 
her eyes made him quiver. 

At the end of the twenty seconds Peter Sutton 
tapped the mat impatiently with his walking-stick, 
and said “Well?” in a scornful voice. 

B. J. ran the fingers of both hands through his 
black hair. 

‘Come in, father, come in!” he muttered. “I 
—er—a rather awkward—er—occurrence-” 

He could get no further. He turned, and allow¬ 
ing his father to pass followed him into the study. 
The old chap had better see it for himself. The 
room was so much more eloquent than ever he 
could have been at such a moment. 

Peter Sutton started violently at the sight that 
met his eyes, and exploded. 

[ 35 ] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“What the devil’s happened here? Eh? Speak 
up, boy, speak up!” he shouted, and began tearing 
off his gloves as if they constricted thought. He 
glared at the unfortunate Albert de Vere and de¬ 
manded again: “What’s happened? Have you 
lost those papers? Where are those papers?” 

“They have—er—disappeared,” said B. J., and 
having broken the news felt appreciably better, 
though not much. That—that girl—the girl with 
those eyes! 

“Disappeared—disappeared!” his father raved. 
“What d’you mean—disappeared? Didn’t I tell 
you to look after them? Didn’t I write it clearly 
enough? Of all the incompetent, inefficient-” 

His emotions choked him, and he collapsed on the 
Chesterfield. Then he quieted a little, and said 
savagely: 

“They’ve got them—they’ve got them! And I 
travelled all night-” 

B. J. and Albert de Vere were looking at each 
other in helplessness, but at the last words of the 
apoplectic old gentleman B. J. swung round. He 
felt firmer ground beneath his feet. 

“You knew they might be stolen?” he said, and 
there was almost a note of accusation in his voice. 

“Yes. I was warned last night—but that’s no 
damned reason why you should let them be stolen!” 
Peter Sutton added fiercely. 

“You didn’t give me much-” 

[ 36 ] 





THE SUTTON PAPERS 


“Damn it, don’t stand havering there!” the old 
man bellowed. “Tell me how it happened!” 

B. J. told him, loath as he was, for he still clung 
to the theory that the girl was not a thief, in spite 
of the clarity of the fact that she was. He knew 
well that he was being a senseless, unbalanced, emo¬ 
tional fool; but equally well he knew that he could 
not be anything else. His father punctuated the 
story with violent thumps of his stick on the floor. 

“Of all the darn stupid businesses!” he said at the 
end of it. “You’re a bigger fool than I thought, 
Bedford. How a man who claims to have the 
brain faculties of one of the higher vertebrates could 
have been bluffed that way beats me ! A fish would 
have had more sense!” 

“Yes,” said B. J. meekly. 

The monosyllable seemed to touch off all the re¬ 
maining explosive matter in the old man. 

“Yes! But what are you going to do about it? 
Pve got to have those papers. Man, Pm ruined if 
I don’t get them back—ruined! Black ruin!” 

To B. J. this seemed an extravagant view of the 
matter, for whatever the papers happened to be no 
man could have his financial life bound up in the 
possession of a packet of the thinness of the stolen 
one. He ventured to say so. 

“Financial ruin?” his father shot back at him. 
“Who said anything about financial ruin? Pve got 
to get those papers back!” he repeated doggedly, 
[ 37 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

rather like a man chiselling at a rock with a 
penknife. 

“I’ll have a jolly good shot,” said B. J. suddenly, 
for he saw that where the packet of papers was there 
in all probability would be the girl. 

The thought cheered him, and he lost much of 
his fear of his father’s wrath. Besides, if he pur¬ 
sued his quest with sufficient energy it would dispel 
the old chap’s impression that he was wasting his 
time. Manchester and the hidden horror of an 
office removed themselves into the background of 
eventualities, and a sense of security descended upon 
him. 

“The police!” he said sharply, and reached for 
the telephone on the table. 

Both Peter Sutton and Albert de Vere jumped. 
Albert de Vere, metaphorically washing his hands 
of the matter, hurried away to find his braces and 
the rest of his clothes. Peter Sutton watched his 
son’s proceedings at the telephone with an odd ex¬ 
pression on his yellow parchment face. It might 
have been apprehensive, and was certainly one of 
doubt. 

B. J. spoke to Scotland Yard in vivid language. 
Would the old johnnies circulate a description of 
the girl throughout the metropolitan area? It gave 
him a dull, sinking sensation in the pit of his stom¬ 
ach ; but she had to be found—she had to be found. 
He could see to it when they got her that she was 
not prosecuted, he told himself, showing that his 

[38] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

hope was stronger than his sense of probability. 
If he had ever heard of the difficulty the police 
experience in such matters his optimism successfully 
dulled his memory. 

“It’s no use,” his father said, when he had fin¬ 
ished. “It’s no damn use! They’ve gone. No¬ 
body will find that girl, and if the police do they’ll 
lose her quick enough.” 

His air was that of a man who dwells in the 
abyss of despondency. 

“What do you mean?” B. J. asked him. “Why 
should the police lose her quick enough? Do you 
know her? Who is she?” 

His voice was more eager than he realized, and 
the old man glanced suspiciously at him before fall¬ 
ing back into his gloom. 

“Who is she?” he repeated. “Heaven knows! 
But she’s got everything on her side. The interfer¬ 
ing devils!” 

B. J. was conscious of something in his father’s 
attitude toward the whole thing that needed ex¬ 
plaining, for the very reason that the old man was 
steadfastly refusing to explain it. But then he had 
always emulated the example of the oyster in mat¬ 
ters that concerned his business. It must be that 
the habit was too strong even for such an emergency 
as this. B. J.’s ruminations were side-tracked effec¬ 
tively by a sudden question from the subject of them. 

“Who’s that ferrety chap who was in here just 
now?” 


[39] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“Albert de Vere,” said B. J., and stopped short, 
because he was too troubled and disturbed to go into 
irrelevant details about irrelevant things. 

“Oh!” said Peter Sutton, and stamped his stick 
again. “One of the nobility, I suppose?” 

In his tone was all the disapproval of his son’s 
feckless existence. 

“One of the best,” agreed B. J., and left it at that. 

Then he began walking about the room, putting 
the litter from the rifled desk back into the drawers 
and pulling the carpet into position again. 

In the midst of it he was struck by something he 
had overlooked in the devastating excitement of the 
moment. Why, since she must have known where 
the packet was, had the girl ransacked the rest of 
the room so thoroughly? At once came the ex¬ 
planation, and he turned to his father. 

“Look here, old bean-” 

“Don’t call me ‘old bean’!” snapped Peter Sutton. 

“Sorry. I mean, look here. The girl knew 
where that packet was; she saw me put it in the 
safe. Yet she turned the room upside down. Could 
she have been looking for something else? Was 
there anything else she wanted?” 

The old man looked at him fishily, twirling his 
walking-stick between his two forefingers. 

“There might have been,” he said non¬ 
committally. “You never know.” 

B. J. almost scowled at him. If the old chap 
wouldn’t tell him what was behind it all he wouldn’t, 

[40] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 


and that was all there was to it. If it had not been 
for the fact that he wanted to convince his reason 
that the girl was not such a thief as she looked he 
wouldn’t have bothered his head about it; but some¬ 
how he had a feeling that a little explanation from 
his father would do much to help that convincing. 
However, this feeling in itself did a good deal, and 
with a stouter heart he went into his bedroom to 
dress. It permitted him to choose his socks and 
tie with his accustomed care. 

Albert de Vere, intent upon becoming the dandiest 
valet in the game, hovered about him, imbibing 
information and instruction in the art. A “gentle¬ 
man’s man” was what he was now, and he threw all 
the sharp-witted adaptability of several years’ bur¬ 
glary and petty larceny into the task of fulfilling 
the demands of that enhanced social position. 

He examined B. J.’s gold watch, weighing it in 
his hand mechanically while B. J. buttoned his 
waistcoat. 

“You could pop it for a fiver any day,” he re¬ 
marked, and then fell to discussing the events of 
the morning. 

“You ain’t bringing the ’tecs back ’ere, are you, 
sir?” he asked. 

B. J. nodded, for conversation, even with Albert 
de Vere, was repugnant to him in his present state 
of anxiety. 

“Got to look round,” he murmured. 

“I suppose so, sir, but the thought makes me 

[41] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

all cold-like. I needn’t appear in the matter, need 
I, sir?” 

“Can’t tell,” said B. J. 

And with this Albert de Vere had to be content. 
He felt that it was hard, however, for a fellow to 
have to face his pet aversion so soon in a new job. 

When B. J. returned to the study he found his 
father sitting at the desk, writing feverishly on a 
block of telegraph forms. He wrote six or seven 
—all of them in code—and sent the janitor to the 
post office with them. It seemed to have lightened 
his gloom somewhat. 

B. J. walked aimlessly up and down, searching 
his brain for schemes to find the girl, but in an odd 
manner the memory of her kept interfering with 
his mental processes. In the middle of these vain 
attempts Mrs. Coombes, the housekeeper, who re¬ 
fused to sleep in because she did not hold with 
the hours at which B. J. went to bed, let herself in 
with a latchkey, and since it was only nine o’clock 
was more than mildly surprised to find B. J. already 
up. He introduced her to Albert de Vere, asked 
her to get breakfast, and sat down moodily on the 
Chesterfield, whence the thought that the girl had 
lain on it caused him to rise quickly. He scowled 
at the offending piece of furniture, and occupied him¬ 
self during the next five minutes by telephoning to 
Harrods’, and asking them to come and fetch it 
away and warehouse it. He felt that he would not 
be able to stand the sight of it very long. 

[ 42 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

His father watched him a little wonderingly, but 
made no comment. He seemed to have reached a 
point where comment on anything was no longer 
within the range of his mental capacity. He just 
stared at the safe in the corner as though he would 
materialize the missing packet in it by sheer force 
of concentration. His yellow face was set and 
expressionless, and B. J. wondered what emotion it 
concealed now that the storm had passed. 

They ate their breakfasts in silence, father and 
son, opposite each other, wrapt in their own imagin¬ 
ings. It suddenly occurred to the son, as he was 
helping himself to marmalade, that for the first time 
he was entering a side of his father’s life that had 
always been a closed book to him, for although it 
was not yet open to any great extent the title-page 
might be said to be in view. 

When the dismal meal came to an end B. J. went 
to the window and looked out upon the sea of yel¬ 
low fog that hid the street below and the houses 
opposite. It was a day in keeping with the fog 
within him; for he could do no more than grope 
blindly amid the emotions that hung over his 
usually clear mind. He neither knew what he 
thought nor what he felt, except that the waiting 
was almost more than he could bear, and the sus¬ 
pense of it more trying than any he had experienced. 
Yet what could he do? He contemplated the fog, 
and sighed. 

The first half of the morning ended with the 

[43] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

arrival of a detective, who crawled about the study, 
and asked numerous questions which B. J. answered 
as best he could. He found increasing difficulty in 
focusing his mind. It would wander off at tangents 
which inevitably ended in wild speculation about 
the unknown girl. 

Albert de Vere came into the study, wearing the 
livery of his predecessor, while the detective was at 
work, in order to clear away the breakfast things. 
The two looked at each other, and the detective 
said: 

“Hullo, Slippery! You here?” 

“Orl right, orl right!” snapped Albert de Vere, 
obviously aggrieved at such a breach of etiquette. 
“Orl right. You ain’t got nuthin’ on me this time.” 
And he slipped out of the door with his tray. 

The detective looked at the door doubtfully. 

“It’s quite all right,” said B. J. “The chappie’s 
running straight. This is nothing to do with him.” 

“If you say so, sir,” said the other, and went on 
with his crawling. 

On the other side of the keyhole Albert de Vere 
rose to his feet. “The boss is a sport—that he is!” 
he said from the bottom of a grateful heart, and 
carried the tray into the kitchen. 

Immediately upon the detective’s going the tele¬ 
phone rang, and B. J. jumped across from the win¬ 
dow to it, snatching it up and disengaging the 
receiver. It was Vine Street Police Station speak¬ 
ing. Would Mr. Bedford James Sutton mind 
[ 44 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


calling at an early moment in order to identify a 
woman who answered as nearly as possible to the 
description they had received from Scotland Yard? 

Would he mind? Would he mindf 

“They’ve found her!” he shouted at his father. 
“They’ve found her!” 

He slammed down the instrument and dashed 
for the hall and his hat. He did not see the expres¬ 
sion of concern that crossed his father’s face, but 
something stopped him as still as stone as his hand 
was on the front-door knob. There came a double 
knock at the other side, followed by a double ring 
of the bell, and the effect on B. J.’s enthusiasm was 
little short of tragic. He took his hand from the 
knob as if it had suddenly become red-hot, and his 
face took on an expression of agonized expectancy. 
He darted back up the hall like a rabbit down its 
hole, and caught Albert de Vere by the lapel of his 
coat as he went to open the door. 

“That’s Miriam!” said B. J. “Miss Blanchard! 
She was coming to lunch! I’d forgotten! Wait a 
moment—let me get out—I’m in a hurry! They’ve 
found that girl! Tell the old chap he’s got to give 
her lunch-” 

The sharp-set eyes of Albert de Vere lost a little 
of their habitual bird-like alertness as he tried to 
follow this speech; one thing, however, caught firmly 
in the forefront of his mind—that the boss did not 
want the front door opened until he had gone. He 
saw B. J. dash into the bathroom, fling open the win- 
[ 45 ] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 

dow, and disappear over the sill with a startling 
abruptness considering that it could not have been 
less than sixty feet above the ground. 

With fear clutching at his heart Albert de Vere 
rushed to the window, and with a strangled gasp of 
relief saw his master running down a fire-escape, still 
holding his hat in his hand. At the bottom he placed 
it on his head, and walked serenely round the corner 
of a narrow alley-way. 

Albert de Vere wiped his forehead with the back 
of his hand, and turned slowly to the front door, 
his heart bursting with professional admiration for 
the slickness of the boss’s getaway. He opened the 
door, and eyeing Miriam Blanchard with an aloof 
coldness ushered her into the study, and in deep ac¬ 
cents announced to Peter Sutton: 

“Young lady, name o’ Blanchard, wot’s come to 
lunch!” And, well satisfied, closed the door on 
them. 


II 

The taxi which bore B. J. eastward up Piccadilly 
was to his impatient mind the slowest that ever plied 
its brigand’s trade. In a few minutes, he told him¬ 
self, he would see the girl with the marvellous eyes 
again, and this time she would not be able to disap¬ 
pear into thin air so easily. 

It was surprising that thus early he should have 
had such a careless regard for a luncheon appoint- 

[46] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


ment with his affianced bride, particularly in view 
of the manner in which he had parted from her the 
night before, and his subsequent desire to see her 
as soon as possible in order to crawl guiltily before 
her and make amends for her own bad temper. But 
he certainly was not in any way unhappy at the 
thought of Miriam being presented so unceremoni¬ 
ously to his father, who as yet had not been in¬ 
formed of his son’s good fortune. 

In actual fact the thought caused him to smile for 
the first time that morning, and to feel a faint re¬ 
gret that he could not be hidden behind the screen 
while the meeting took place. Then he forgot the 
matter in the excitement of the business in hand—a 
heartless young man, one might say, with no sense 
of duty or responsibility. 

At last the taxi came to a grinding standstill be¬ 
fore Vine Street Police Station, and B. J. entered 
those historic doors with slightly different emotions 
from those with which he had approached them 
on a previous occasion—it had been the result of 
some trifling disagreement with a police constable 
about his right to his own helmet—and he sought 
the inspector’s office with a heart that was beating 
fast. 

“I’m Bedford James Sutton,” he said. “You 
have a girl—er—you telephoned for me.” 

“That’s right,” said a portly, benevolent inspec¬ 
tor, as he came round from behind his desk. “She’s 
up before the magistrate at Marlborough Street in 

[47] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

half an hour’s time. Jenkins here”—he indicated 
a constable—“brought her in.” 

“Up before the magistrate?” said B. J. sharply. 
“What’s the charge?” 

“Loiterin’ with felonious intent,” said the con¬ 
stable. “Leastways, she wasn’t loiterin’, rightly 
speakin’, she was runnin’.” 

“Running? Where?” 

“Down Half Moon Street—about five o’clock 
this mornin’. She banged into me in the fog. She 
wouldn’t give no account of ’erself—tried to bite 
me. I said if she ’ad a home I’d take ’er to it— 
but she ’adn’t one, it seemed, so I brought ’er along. 
Looks to me like a case for the court missionary. 
Description,” he went on mechanically: “black silk 

dress in bad condition, dark ’air, brown eyes-” 

Brown eyes! B. J. could have stunned the fool. 
Instead he said: 

“Anything on her?” 

“This,” said the inspector, and took the missing 
packet off the desk. 

B. J. stretched out a hand. 

“No, sir, I’m afraid it’s hers—unless you charge 
her with the theft of it, of course. I understand 
there was a burglary?” 

“Yes—yes,” muttered B. J., who was realizing 
his quandary. 

He would not be able to get his father’s stupid 
papers without practically sending the girl to prison! 
He was in a hole, and he knew it. 

[ 48 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


“Do you think you could let me see her for a few 
minutes? I believe we can settle the matter out 
of court, as it were. No objection, I suppose?” 

The inspector gathered what the young man’s 
trouble was, without realizing, perhaps, the depth 
of it—besides, the girl was a youngster, and prob¬ 
ably the fright would teach her as much as a prison 
would, if not more. 

“By all means, sir,” he said. “I understand.” 

With a relief that surpassed all else B. J. fol¬ 
lowed a wardress down a narrow passage to a cell; 
the door was opened, and he stepped inside to meet 
the cool, level gaze of the girl in the black dress. 
Then he was aware that the eyes were challenging 
and defiant, and that an indomitable spirit shone 
through them. 

“Pm glad you liked the soup,” he said, and tried 
to still the beating of his heart. 


[49] 


CHAPTER III 


The girl before him, beyond the fixity of her gaze 
on him, might have been oblivious of his presence. 
She certainly was of his remark. This silence dis¬ 
turbed B. J. more than anything else could have 
done at the moment, for when he expected to have 
a glimpse of her personality he realized that she 
was as elusive as ever. 

“Why on earth did you do it?” he asked her, and 
stepped closer to her. “Tell me—please; I want to 
help.” 

A faint frown creased the smooth white brow, a 
frown of bewilderment at first, as though she was 
taken aback by something unexpected, and then it 
became scornful. She did not say anything, how¬ 
ever, but watched him more carefully than ever. 

B. J. felt that so far he had achieved nothing; the 
frown puzzled him. She must have a devilish 
pride, he told himself, and went on with the loss of 
his assurance in his voice. 

“Honestly, I want to help,” he said. “Look 
here, there must be some reason for your taking 
those papers, for the trick you played to get them. 

I am perfectly sure that a girl with—with-” 

He stopped. There was no help in the golden eyes; 

[So] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 

just a quiet, steady scorn. Suddenly she spoke, and 
B. J.’s soul was lost in that moment—in the deep, 
indescribable timbre of her voice. 

“You’ve come to bargain for those papers,” she 
said. “Bargain for them, and keep your sentimen¬ 
tality for some one who appreciates it!” 

B. J. gulped, and under his misery realized that, 
in spite of the dingy cell, the dirty yellow light, and 
the rags she wore, the girl had a dignity that was 
almost appalling. It forbade all humanity, and 
killed his friendliness and sympathy. 

“Yes,” he said, “I’ve come to bargain for those 
papers, but I can assure you that there is no need 
for me to bargain. I have only to charge you with 
the theft and produce my valet to identify you, and 
I get them back. Also you go to prison for a num¬ 
ber of months.” 

The girl inclined her head, 

“You will not charge me,” she said in the matter- 
of-fact tone of one who states an axiom. “You 
know quite well you will not charge me.” 

B. J. was startled. Could she read him so easily, 
or was she so certain of her power to persuade him? 
He knew, even as she said it, that he could not send 
her to prison. The thought of those eyes watching 
a narrow strip of sky through a grating from the 
depths of a felon’s cell would drive him mad. He 
knew that, and so, apparently, did she. 

“No,” he said quietly, “I could not charge you. 
But you must give me back that packet.” 

[5i] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

The girl stared at him, and then laughed. The 
sound, like magic flutes, trembled through the cell, 
and B. J. winced at it. It was utterly amused. 

“Why?” she asked him at the end of it. 

“Because—because you are not a thief—because 
you would be if I let you keep the papers.” 

This cost him something, for in the face of that 
laugh it sounded absurd and childish. 

There was a short pause before she said: 

“Do you think I care whether I am a thief or 
not?” 

B. J. shrugged his shoulders. 

“I rather hoped you did,” he said wearily, for the 
interview was not going as he had hoped. 

He had been prepared for a show of spirit, and 
would have been disappointed if it had not come, 
but this attitude—it left a chap nowhere. There 
was nothing to grasp in it. 

“The end justified the means,” she said unexpect¬ 
edly, and with a hint of more sincerity than she had 
yet exhibited. 

This gave him a peg on which to hang something. 

“You mean money? I know you are working for 
a set of scoundrels—they must be to employ a girl 
like you. Look here. I promise to see that you 
have everything you want. You needn’t worry 
about money again. You see-” 

B. J. faltered before her blazing eyes and 
stopped. 


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“You cad! You unspeakable cad!” she said in 
a low voice of unutterable scorn. “You find a 
girl whom you think cannot defend herself, and 

make- You beasts! I hate you all, you men. 

You’re all the same! Cads!” 

Words failed her, and she gazed at B. J.’s burn¬ 
ing face with a loathing and contempt that withered 
his explanations before they were born. She made 
him feel all the guilt she saw in him, and he almost 
loathed himself with her. Then anger and resent¬ 
ment came. Why should she fly at him like that? 
He was behaving in a perfectly altruistic way, and 
it was unjust of her to condemn him as a bounder. 
Couldn’t she see he was all right? Good heavens! 
Did he look that sort of blighter? 

He faced her with all his instinctive sex- 
antagonism wild and uncontrolled. 

“Then you can dam’ well go to prison!” he said 
angrily. 

And with that he turned his back on her and 
strode out of the cell, into the corridor, and back to 
the inspector’s office, trembling with a rage he had 
never felt before, wondering at it, yet too deep in 
the toils to calm himself and realize what he was 
doing. The inspector eyed him inquiringly. 

“No use,” said B. J. “She’s determined to go 
through with it.” 

“You’ll charge her?” 

“Yes.” 


[S3] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 


And as he said it he came to himself. The in¬ 
spector reached for a blank charge-sheet, seating 
himself at the desk. 

“Full name, Mr. Sutton?” 

Here an interruption occurred with the entry of 
the wardress. 

“Excuse me, Inspector Harries, but Number 
Forty-three says she agrees to the gentleman’s con¬ 
dition. I don’t know what that means, but I 
brought the message.” 

“Ah!” said the inspector. “Bring her in.” 

B. J. was conscious of tremendous relief. He had 
been about to make a bigger fool of himself than he 
was already, and he waited eagerly for the return 
of the wardress with the girl. She came, and he 
searched her face for some sign of broken spirit, but 
was disappointed. It was as determined and aloof 
as ever. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “I am 
grateful.” 

Even to B. J. it was obvious that she was not. 
The inspector eyed her sternly. 

“Look here, my girl,” he said, “if this young man 
was to do his duty as a citizen you’d be in prison 
in a brace of shakes. D’you understand that? 
He’s giving you another chance.” 

The girl nodded. 

“You’ll be charged with having no fixed abode 
and visible means of support,” he went on. “As it 
is, you’ll probably get seven days.” 

[54] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


She nodded again, and without another glance at 
B. J. preceded the wardress out of the room. 

“Can’t think what’s eating her,” remarked the in¬ 
spector, and handed B. J. the thin packet. 

B. J. put it back in his hip pocket and breathed a 
deep sigh of profound relief. 

“You said she would be up before the magistrate 
quite shortly?” he said. 

“Almost at once.” 

“Would there be anything to be gained by my 
speaking for her?” 

“There might, but I don’t advise you to do it. 
There’s never anything to be gained by having truck 
with that kind of girl. She’ll go wrong to-morrow 
if she doesn’t to-day. I know ’em.” 

B. J. did not attempt to defend himself. He 
saw as clearly as the policeman that he was asking 
for trouble—and yet, those eyes! He could not 
believe that they were what appearances showed 
him all the time they were—the eyes of a consum¬ 
mate actress with no moral sense. He kept telling 
himself during his wait in the crowded court that 
history abounded with men—great men, wise men— 
who had thrown reason overboard when a wom¬ 
an’s eyes came into their lives. And he was to be 
another of them, and since he was neither great nor 
wise posterity would not benefit by his experience; 
he would not put a comma on the page of history. 
Idly he began wondering, as a man will when thought 
becomes congested, what constituted a right to be- 

[55] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

come an historical figure. One had to lead an army 
or sink a navy or something. Funny business— 
not in his line at all. 

Then he realized that the slim black figure was 
in the dock, like a Madonna lily flowering in the 
depth of an evil, black wood. Her oval face in 
its frame of dark brown hair was curiously flower¬ 
like and innocent. B. J. looked round the stuffy 
courtroom and shivered. What was the girl feel¬ 
ing? He could not believe that her stillness went 
deep, that she was facing it with a heart as hard as 
her face. He wished he was nearer her eyes; at 
the distance they were dark, expressionless shadows 
in the paleness of her face. 

The case seemed to excite the crowd rather more 
than the preceding ones, and B. J. realized that it 
was the girl’s youth which caused the rustle of whis¬ 
pering that ran through the well of the court. Two 
dejected members of the daily Press who sat near 
the magistrate’s desk, twiddling their pencils and 
yawning, opened their notebooks. B. J. gritted his 
teeth and listened angrily to the constable’s story of 
his early morning meeting with the accused. He 
ended up with a hint that a burglary had been com¬ 
mitted near the scene, obviously intent upon gather¬ 
ing all the interest there might be going. B. J. 
blessed the inspector, who rose and said: 

“That has been settled satisfactorily, your wor¬ 
ship. There was certainly a question of a charge 
on that count, but it has been dropped.” 

[56] 


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The magistrate examined the girl carefully before 
saying: 

“All right. What have you to say for yourself?” 

“Nothing,” came her answer, clear and sweet, 
across the still court. 

The audience rustled again. The young hussy! 

B. J. does not remember getting to his feet or 
commencing the speech that turned every face to¬ 
ward him. He found himself in the middle of it— 
an appeal for the accused of an eloquence that sur¬ 
prised him as much as it surprised the magistrate 
and the court at large. Out of the corner of his 
eyes he saw the two dejected members of the Press 
scribbling furiously. 

He came to an end. 

“. . . I’ll vouch for her, your worship. She’s 
had a rotten life, and I know that if she gets her 
chance she’ll make good.” 

The magistrate adjusted his glasses and peered 
at the young man. 

“I see,” he said. “I see. Well, well. I’ll leave 
it to you, my boy.” Then he winked with his voice. 
“I think we might wish you luck—eh? Case 
dismissed.” 

The court hummed; its sentimentality had been 
touched. Several people shook a very flustered B. 
J. by the hand, while he tried to catch a sight of the 
girl’s face as she left the dock, but it was turned 
away from him. He hurried out of the court and 
came face to face with her in the lobby. 

[ 57 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“I say,” he began, “Pm most awfully sorry about 
the way I spoke to you in the cell. But you misun¬ 
derstood. You see, you accused me of being such 
an infernal rotter it got at me for a moment. Let’s 
get out of here.” 

She had already begun walking toward the doors, 
and she waited until they were on the pavement be¬ 
fore she said: 

“What did you do that for? Why—why?” 

Her voice had lost its hardness, and to B. J.’s 
unspeakable horror there were tears in the golden 
eyes. 

“Do what—do what? Don’t cry, for heaven’s 
sake! Don’t cry! It’s all over.” 

“Why, get me off—speak for me! I hate you! 
You’ve forced me into your debt. Couldn’t you be 
content with getting your papers back? I hate 
you!” 

“But—but-” 

B. J. was completely at a loss. 

“I’d rather have gone to prison—I was willing to 
go! And now you think you have a hold on me! 
You haven’t! You haven’t!” 

She was walking quickly down the narrow street 
that leads into Regent Street, as though trying to 
get away from something she detested. To B. J. 
it was patently obvious that it was he, and never 
was there a more perplexed and unhappy young 
man. 

“I don’t want to have a hold on you! I swear 

[58] 




a 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

I don’t. Why should I?” he said, groping for 
reason for her state of agitation. 

“It looks like it, anyhow,” she said. “I don’t 
know what I think. Go away! Please go away! 
Leave me alone! You’ve spoilt it all now, and— 
and-” 

B. J. put a hand on her arm, and she shook it off. 

“Please!” he said. “Please! Can’t we go some¬ 
where and talk it over? I’m sure there’s something 
we can do.” 

“There’s nothing—nothing. I’ve asked you be¬ 
fore—please leave me.” 

They were in Piccadilly, and in the thick of the 
crowd. B. J. swore under his breath, for conver¬ 
sation of the type with which he was struggling was 
impossible. 

The girl turned on him, looking him full in the 
eyes. 

“You’ve got what you set out to get. Be con¬ 
tent and let me go.” 

B. J. could not refuse, not with the pleading, 
piteous eyes on him. He nodded dumbly, and 
raised his hat mechanically. The next moment she 
was across the road toward Lower Regent Street, 
and B. J. stood on the kerb watching the slim figure 
hurrying through the stream of pedestrians. She 
disappeared down Lower Regent Street. 

The policeman on point duty at the top of Picca¬ 
dilly shouted a warning to a reckless young fool 
who flung himself perilously across the face of a 

[59] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 


moving phalanx of traffic, and saw him land on the 
opposite pavement in the midst of three elderly 
gentlemen, who cursed him furiously. The young 
fool hurried down Lower Regent Street. 

B. J. had suddenly realized that she had made no 
stipulation about what he was to do when he left 
her, and with no pricking of his conscience he de¬ 
cided to follow her. He had the feeling strong 
upon him that the thing was as yet in its beginning, 
and he had no intention whatsoever of letting go of 
the reins, even if the horse had got the bit between 
its teeth, so to speak. 

The task of keeping the black figure in sight once 
he had seen it was not difficult. She had slackened 
her pace to a slow walk, as though reluctant to reach 
her destination. There was nothing in her poise 
to suggest a fear of being followed; she did not 
glance back once the whole length of Lower Regent 
Street, and B. J. came to the conclusion that she 
was too troubled by her failure to get the thin packet 
to think of anything else. In spite of his dissatis¬ 
faction with his morning’s work—for the recovery 
of the papers cheered him little—he had a definite 
feeling of settling down to things. At least he was 
going to be able to keep an eye on her, even if it was 
to be a surreptitious one. 

In the middle of these reflections something hap¬ 
pened that caused him to stop short in his stride 
and swear violently with bewilderment and some 
strange new emotion he did not understand. 

[60] 


*>THE SUTTON PAPERS 

A tall, fair man in a dark blue suit and white 
spats, who had been coming toward the girl, 
stopped, raised his hat, and, with a pleased smile of 
recognition, began talking to her. To B. J. the 
pleased smile was nothing less than an odious smirk, 
and he was conscious of an aching desire to go up 
to the fellow and crush his grey felt hat over his 
ears. 

Then the two moved off, the man turning and ac¬ 
companying the girl. B. J., fuming with the strange 
new emotion, followed, wondering who on earth 
the tall, fair man was, and what he was to the girl. 
She had seemed, as nearly as he could tell at the 
distance, to be relieved at meeting him. They were 
deep in conversation. Once the tall man looked 
back over his shoulder suspiciously, and B. J., 
crouching a little behind the pedestrian in front of 
him, decided that she had been telling the man about 
him, and the other had instantly thought of the 
likelihood of his following her. 

The great surprise of B. J.’s surprising morning 
came when the man and the girl turned into the 
Carlton House Terrace and mounted the steps of 
one of the houses, No. 14A. The man took a latch¬ 
key from his pocket, and the two disappeared in¬ 
side. The door closed, and B. J. realized that he 
had a clue. If the girl did not actually live in the 
house she at least entered it with the air of one who 
did. And her companion had used a latchkey. 

He watched the house covertly for a while from 

[61] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


behind the plinth of a statue, but nobody came out 
of it. With his mind a prey to a thousand unpleas¬ 
ant conjectures he took a taxi back to Half Moon 
Street. One thing gave him a certain comfort— 
the tall, fair johnny was not her husband. There 
had been nothing husband-like in his attitude; rather 
had it been lover-like. Indeed, B. J. told himself, 
it could hardly have been anything else; a girl with 
those eyes would move in a world populated entirely 
with men whose attitude was lover-like. 

Suddenly he discovered that he did not know her 
name, and the last portion of the journey he spent 
in wondering what it was. It troubled him a little, 
not knowing it. 

The stairs up to the flat irritated him by the mem¬ 
ory they brought him of the night before, and he 
scowled at the front-door mat. His first words to 
Albert de Vere, whom he met in the hall carrying a 
tray out of the dining-room, were: 

“Have Harrods’ called for that Chesterfield?” 

“Yes, sir. And Miss Blanchard ’as gorn; she 
couldn’t stay to lunch. The old chap’s ’aving ’is 
alone.” 

“Thanks,” said B. J., and, remembering Miriam 
for the first time, mentally thanked high heaven that 
she had left. 

He felt curiously relieved that he would not have 
to deal with her. The relative disadvantages of 
London’s diner dansants was a subject he could not 
have discussed at the moment. He made his way 
[62] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


to the dining-room, and found his father demolish¬ 
ing the remains of an apple tart with what struck 
him as a disgusting display of appetite. Food was 
repugnant to him in his present mood, and that any¬ 
one else should want to eat annoyed him. 

Peter Sutton looked up. 

“Well?” he said. 

“I’ve got it,” said B. J., and took the packet from 
his hip pocket. 

“What!” shouted his father, incredulous surprise 
and joy spreading over his yellow face. “You’ve 
got them! How did you do it? Bedford, Bed¬ 
ford, I—I-” 

He grabbed the packet with both hands, tore it 
open, and ran over a sheaf of thin, closely written 
manuscript with gloating eyes. B. J. watched him 
with a vague interest. That the old chap should 
be pleased was gratifying, for it re-established him 
in his eyes. Manchester and the office might be 
kept in the background of eventuality a little longer 
on the strength of it. But his gratification was 
tinged with a sense of the irony of the situation. 
He had set out to attain this object, but what he 
had lost in attaining it! 

“How did you manage it, my boy, eh? Tell me 
about it! Have a cigar?” 

“No, thanks,” said B. J. “I had a little difficulty 
in getting them without charging the girl with the 
theft, and I-” 

“That was right; you wouldn’t have got them if 

[63] 




THE SUTTON PAPERS 


you had,” cut in the old man, and lit a black cigar 
with an unpleasant sucking noise. 

“Why?” B. J. was again conscious of mystery. 
“The girl said I could not charge her, and then I 
lost my temper and said I would. She capitulated. 
I made it clear that it would mean several months’ 
imprisonment.” 

“What! You bluffed her with that! Good 
boy.” 

“Bluffed her? What do you mean? Look here, 
I wish you wouldn’t leave me in the dark like this. 
What the devil does it all mean?” 

Peter Sutton remembered the cautious oyster, ap¬ 
parently, for he said hastily: 

“All in good time—all in good time! The great 
thing is we’ve got them back. By the way, that 
young woman—Blanchard—she asked me to give 
you this,” he added, and pulled out a pocketful of 
silver and coppers, from the midst of which he se¬ 
lected a small half-hoop of diamonds and handed 
it to B. J. 

B. J. started, took it, looked at it, and then 
slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. That made 
the fourth time in a month she had broken off the 
engagement, and he received the sign of it with far 
more philosophy than he had received it on either 
of three previous occasions. 

“She said you must learn to keep appointments,” 
said his father. “Seemed a nice young woman to 
me. She asked me to tea.” 

[64] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


“Did she?” said B. J. “Oh, well!” 

The front-door bell rang, and Peter Sutton 
jumped to his feet and looked at his watch. 

“Good! That will be George. He’ll be pleased 
about these papers.” 

“George?” 

“Sir George Marsh, nineteenth baronet,” said 
Peter Sutton. “My London partner.” 

Albert de Vere appeared. 

“Sir George Marsh,” he announced proudly. 

B. J. looked up, and bit his upper lip—hard. The 
tall, fair man who possessed a latchkey to No. 14A 
Carlton House Terrace walked, smiling, into the 
dining-room. 


[65] 


CHAPTER IV 


There are moments in a man’s life when the con¬ 
scious mind is entirely submerged by the subcon¬ 
scious; when all his thoughts and emotions are 
swamped by a dominating force from within, a 
something which, called forth, calms the instinctive 
desire for action, paralyses the natural expression 
of emotion. 

Such a moment came to B. J. when he saw the 
smiling face of Sir George Marsh, and recognized 
him as the mysterious companion of the girl in black. 
He felt his eyes bulging and his jaw dropping; then 
realized that neither of these things was happening, 
and that something in himself, called upon by the 
emergency and necessity of not giving himself away, 
was controlling his facial muscles. Then the mo¬ 
ment was gone, and he was once more in command. 
He heard his father say: 

“We’ve got them back, George. Let me intro¬ 
duce my son—Bedford—Sir George Marsh. The 
boy bluffed like an old hand and got them back. 
The girl caved in, and—here we are!” And he 
waved the papers triumphantly. 

“Good work,” said the tall man. “I’m very 

[ 66 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

pleased to meet you,” he added, and held out his 
hand. 

B. J., in the short time this little conversation 
gave him, had arrived at a course of procedure 
which came from three clear facts. One—he 
knew the man and the man did not know him; two— 
here was a deeper mystery than ever, which he was 
in an excellent postion to unravel; and three— 
through this man he could get to the girl. So he 
said, “How do you do,” and set about watching the 
smiling face with casual intentness, waiting and 
watching for he knew not what. He saw at once 
that the smile was what one termed a mask, and 
that the cheerful johnny was playing several deep 
games all at once. 

If he was the pater’s London partner—queer po¬ 
sition—then what business had he in fraternizing 
with a member of the unknown opposition? For 
so far he had not said a word about the girl to the 
old man, and from the way she had talked to him 
it was quite obvious he shared her confidence. He 
knew that she had attempted to steal the papers. 
This thought was instantly followed by another: 
had he employed her to steal them for him? 

As this came into his mind his father said: 

“What beats me, George, is how they knew the 
packet was here. I posted it myself from Man¬ 
chester the moment I got your message that some¬ 
thing might be moving. It seemed to me to be an 
excellent place to send them. I think I should have 

[ 67 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

used Bedford anyhow, even if you hadn’t suggested 
it last month when there was a chance of their mak¬ 
ing a move.” 

This practically confirmed B. J.’s suspicion, al¬ 
though the allusion to “they” again—the mysterious 
“other side”—conveyed nothing to him, while to 
George Marsh it obviously conveyed everything. 

“I can’t understand it either,” he was saying. 
“And I am in a position to know every step Framp- 
ton takes. He must have been working on his own; 
but that is a worrying thought. I wonder if he sus¬ 
pects me at all.” 

“That you are—er—not what you seem?” asked 

B. J. 

“Yes,” said George. “Exactly.” 

Nothing was more obvious to the watchful B. J. 
than that George was not worrying in the slightest. 
He no more believed himself to be suspected by 
“Frampton” than he did that he was standing on 
his head. His smile left his face for a moment, and 
that in itself gave him away, for if it was the smile 
it pretended to be it would have remained where it 
was. 

“What had we better do with these beastly 
things?” asked Peter Sutton, and taking a fresh en¬ 
velope from the desk put the papers in it. 

“I’ll look after them, if you like,” said George 
casually. “We don’t need them, and if it were not 
for Krein we could destroy them. As it is they are 
a continual source of danger to us.” 

[ 68 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

Peter Sutton seemed to debate something in his 
mind before handing the envelope to his partner. 
Then he said: 

“Here you are, but for heaven’s sake don’t let 
them go astray/’ 

“They’ll be all right,” said George, and put them 
carefully away in his pocket-book. 

B. J. privately told himself that the chap had the 
air of one whose object was accomplished. He 
seemed to give a mental heave of his shoulders, and 
the relief in his voice was barely hidden in his next 
words to Peter Sutton. 

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “the Chief is giv¬ 
ing a bal masque to-night at Carlton House Ter¬ 
race, and I thought perhaps you’d like to come 
along. As confidential secretary, I have to deal 
with the invitations, and I was able to keep a card 
for you.” And he took a rather elaborate invita¬ 
tion card from his pocket. 

“Thanks very much,” said Peter Sutton, and B. 
J. felt that his father would have twisted his mous¬ 
tache had he possessed one. 

He knew that for all the old chap’s sneers at his 
son’s friends he was a bit of a snob. A bal masque 
at Carlton House Terrace would be sure to include 
some of the brighter lights in the British aristoc¬ 
racy, and B. J. could see the thought of this pass 
through his father’s mind as he took the card and 
put it in his breast pocket. 

We have said somewhere at the beginning that 

[69] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

B. J. was an ingenious and quick-witted young man, 
and it is on occasions such as this that his fertile 
brain worked the most speedily. Ideas leapt into 
his mind, and action followed them as the report of 
a gun follows the flash. 

He excused himself and left the room. He left 
it languidly enough, but the moment he had closed 
the door he hurried into the kitchen. 

“Where’s Albert?” he asked Mrs. Coombes. 

“In your bedroom, sir,” she said, and added, 
“but what he’s up to is more than I can tell you.” 

She had obviously a healthy suspicion of the new 
valet. 

Two strides took B. J. across the corridor and 
into his room, and he interrupted Albert de Vere— 
who was smelling B. J.’s hair lotion with an inter¬ 
ested nose—with the words: 

“There’s an invitation card in the old man’s left- 
hand breast pocket—inside. I’ve got to have it. 
Can you get it?” 

Albert de Vere put down the hair lotion, his bird¬ 
like eyes gleaming, and said: 

“You watch me, sir! When do you want it? 
Now?” 

“Before he leaves the house. I believe he’s going 
out to tea.” 

“You shall ’ave it,” said Albert de Vere, with a 
conviction that warmed B. J.’s heart. 

He returned to the dining-room to find his fa¬ 
ther looking at his watch and saying: 

[ 70 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“I’ve got an appointment for tea, George. We’ll 
walk down Piccadilly together. You’re going back 
to Carlton House Terrace?” 

“Yes,” said George, and he followed Peter Sutton 
into the hall. 

Albert de Vere was waiting, and he held the old 
man’s overcoat. He helped him on with it. 

B. J. heard the front door shut on them, and the 
next moment Albert de Vere shot into the room 
like a rocket. In his hand was the invitation to the 
bal masque at Carlton House Terrace. B. J. took 
it and read it eagerly. It ran: 

Lord Arthur Frampton requests the 
pleasure of 

Mr. Peter Sutton s company 
at a Bal Masque to be held at 
No. 14A Carlton House Terrace 
on 25 th November at 9 P. M. 

The words “Peter Sutton” .were written in; the 
rest was printed. 

B. J. smacked Albert de Vere on the back and 
said: 

“Bright boy!” 

“Don’t mention it, sir,” said Albert de Vere. 
“Any little thing I can do-” 

B. J. appreciated to the full the sudden going of 
the sense of impotency from which he had suffered 
so badly, and blessed that little word masque from 
the depths of his soul. 

[7i] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 

Ten minutes later he took a taxi to Clarkson’s, 
and spent a busy half-hour in that establishment, 
the atmosphere of which went to his head like 
strong wine. At the end of it he came away with 
the full costume and appurtenances of a particu¬ 
larly gorgeous Chinese river-pirate. 

In a large ivory and gold bedroom at 14A Carl¬ 
ton House Terrace Jacqueline Chester sat at her 
mirror while Felice, her maid, brushed out the heavy 
coils of her dark hair. On the bed behind her lay 
a rusty, tattered black silk frock, and she could see 
it reflected in the glass. She frowned at it. That 
frock represented the one time in her life when she 
had failed to achieve the end on which she had set 
her ambitions. She had failed, too, not through 
any ill luck or lack of judgment, but simply through 
a silly, trifling mistake—the sort of mistake she 
prided herself she did not make, for if she had had 
the sense to walk instead of run down Half Moon 
Street she would have with her now, on the dressing- 
table in front of her, the thin packet of papers which 
would have made life infinitely more interesting for 
her. 

It was half an hour before the guests of her 
uncle’s bal masque were due to arrive, and she had 
been resting after the experiences of some fifteen 
trying hours. She had looked so hopefully for to¬ 
night, when she had promised herself the interview 
with her uncle which would obtain for her his con- 

[72] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

sent that she should take an active part in the affairs 
of State. Lord Arthur Frampton was an under¬ 
secretary for Foreign Affairs, and Jacqueline Ches¬ 
ter had spent the last ten months—since she left her 
school in France—in endeavouring to persuade him 
that the minor position she occupied in the Secret 
Service was indeed deserved. He had been very ob¬ 
stinate in using his influence to get it for her. 

Then there had come this chance, through 
George, of getting hold of the Sutton papers, which 
the astute George had assured her the authorities 
would give all its ears to possess. It had been 
sweet of him to withhold the information concern¬ 
ing their whereabouts, so that she might try her 
hand. True, it had taken her all her time to per¬ 
suade him, but he had finally given way. 

Then had come the working out of the plan— 
an old black silk frock carefully tattered, the acting, 
the theft, and the flight. It had all gone so well 
up to that. Afterward came the nightmare of the 
police station, the brute of a young Sutton—prob¬ 
ably the worst of them all—and his threat to send 
her to prison. 

She knew it had been a bluff, that; but she would 
have had to see it through, for appealing to her 
uncle would have put the fat in the fire. After her 
making such a mess of things, how could he possibly 
be expected to trust her with important work later 
on ? It had been a case of cutting her losses and get¬ 
ting out of it. She had been prepared to spend seven 
[ 73 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


days in prison on that idiotic constable’s charge; but 
then again she had fallen into another hole when 
the young cad had spoken for her. Ugh! And 
they had all thought he was her lover, or some¬ 
thing. It had been horrible, horrible! How she 
hated him! 

She sent Felice out of the room, and gazed sav¬ 
agely in front of her. She could think of no fate 
hard enough for him. Here she unlocked a drawer 
of the dressing-table and took a vicious automatic 
from it, and looked at it thoughtfully. Then she 
put it back, slammed the drawer, and locked it. If 
ever she had a chance of using that pistol on the 
enemies of her country, she hoped devoutly that he 
would be the first. Her golden eyes flashed; she 
would shoot him in the shoulder—with the first 
bullet. 

Her thoughts turned to George Marsh with a 
slight sensation of discomfort. She was not quite 
clear in her mind about what he had said and what 
she had promised when she was persuading him to 
help her. Vaguely she remembered that he had 
suddenly become satisfied with things, and looking 
at it frankly there could be only one thing, as far as 
she was concerned, that would make him feel 
satisfied. 

She liked George—he was clever, and quite 
charming; but—well, marrying him was a question 
she did not feel qualified to put before herself—not 
yet, at all events. But her inclination to shelve the 

[74] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


subject was short-lived. A tap came at the door, 
and Felice entered, carrying a note on a salver. 

“Sir George, he ask me to geeve you this, Mees 
Jacqueline,” she said. 

Jacqueline took it wonderingly; what had come 
over George, writing letters? He prided himself, 
so he told her, on never putting things on paper— 
even love passages. She read the note through, and 
gasped. It was a ray of sunlight indeed. 

Jacqueline dear, will you come into the small smoking- 
room the moment you are ready? I have something that 
I think you will be rather pleased to get. Can you guess? 

George 

It could only mean one thing, and hastily slipping 
into a blue crepe de Chine peignoir she ran out of 
the room and down the stairs, passing Fitzsimons, 
the butler, who is mentioned in no less than three 
different books of reminiscences. As became him, 
he refrained from raising his eyebrows. Jacque¬ 
line burst in upon a smiling George with her eyes 
alight with anticipation. 

“What is it?” she said. “Quick! What is it?” 

“What do you think?” 

“The papers! You’ve got them back?” 

George nodded, and told himself that to see the 
joy in her eyes was worth any man’s soul. Not, 
however, that he was troubled about his own; he 
had managed to dispense with it some years 
[ 75 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


ago. He took the envelope from his pocket-book. 

“George, you dear! You positive dear! I can 
claim the credit? I did absolutely everything, 
didn’t I? In the ordinary way I should have got 
them home, shouldn’t I?” 

He nodded again, and put the packet in her out¬ 
stretched hand. She looked at it and said: 

“But this is different. They were in a blue 
envelope.” 

“Yes; but I can promise you they are the same.” 

“Sure?” 

“Sure!” 

“George, I could kiss you!” 

“Why not?” he demanded quickly, and had his 
arms round her, crushing her to him, before she 
knew what was happening. She struggled a little, 
then lay passive under the kisses. It was thrilling; 
he seemed so much stronger than she had imagined, 
and different, somehow. 

Then he released her, and held her out at arm’s 
length, looking into her eyes. He no longer smiled, 
and his eyes were burning. 

“You love me, Jacqueline? You love me as I 
love you? Heaven! How I do! Girl! Woman! 
You’re the most precious, the most valuable thing 
I have ever wanted. And I’ve wanted some pre¬ 
cious and valuable things. Do you realize what it 
means when a man like me—loves? It means 
everything. Absolutely everything! I’ve got to 
have you! D’you hear? I’ve got to have you! 

[?6] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


You adorable angel, with your angel’s eyes! You’ve 
cast a spell over me that I can’t break—don’t want 
to break. I—I—and Pve never been in the power 
of a living soul before!” 

Jacqueline was a little taken aback by this out¬ 
burst. There was a hint in it of another side of 
him which was entirely new and entirely alarming. 
It frightened her; there was something predatory 
about it, and she did not like it. With a sudden 
movement she slipped from his hands, and said a 
little breathlessly: 

“Ye-es. I—I—think I’d better take these to 

unc le-” 

“He’s at the Foreign Office,” said George, and 
the smile returned slowly to his face. 

He was conscious of having made a slip; it was 
too soon for this sort of thing with her. She was 
young, and he had forgotten it in the sudden passion 
that had come over him. It was seeing her like 
this, with her hair down her back, and pleased with 
him. And he had worked for this moment, too; 
he knew what a store she set on getting into the 
Diplomatic Service, and to be the stepping-stone 
whereby she reached it would have placed him in a 
position nothing else could have won him. Old 
Peter Sutton had wanted to destroy the Krein pa¬ 
pers directly he had them, and it had been the devil 
of a job to prevent him. 

He made no effort to stop her going, cursing him¬ 
self angrily. 


[77] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 


“I’ll let you know the moment he comes in,” he 
said, and held the door open for her. 

Jacqueline reached her room still dazed by his 
violence. It had occurred to her suddenly that he 
was not the type of man with whom she was used 
to dealing; instinctively she had come to recognize 
his kind and avoid it. But he had not been like 
that; and she felt a vague resentment against him 
for having hidden himself, which was a womanly 
course to adopt. 

She sat on her bed for several minutes, repeating 
to herself the things he had said. She put a hand 
to her mouth, pressing her lips against her teeth. 
Then she shivered. 

Presently she returned to her hair-brushing, and 
again caught sight of the black frock in the mirror. 
She smiled at it. It had played its part well, and 
she would wear it to-night. 

B. J. took the precaution of packing the Chinese 
river-pirate’s costume in a suit-case and taking a 
room at the Piccadilly Hotel in order to change 
when the time came. He did not want to have to 
deal with an irate parent, which there would be in 
the flat when Peter Sutton discovered that his invita¬ 
tion card was missing and that his son was chang¬ 
ing for a bal masque. The two things would not 
look well together. 

He left Albert de Vere with precise instruc¬ 
tions. 

[78] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


“Do you know anything about telephones?” 

“I was once an apprentice to a plumber, sir,” said 
Albert, whose nature seemed of the most willing. 
“An’ Pve messed about with things a good bit, you 
know, sir.” 

“Well, can you disconnect a telephone?” 

“Not ’alf,” said Albert. “It’s one of the fust 
things we professional folk ’ave to learn.” 

“Good,” said B. J. “I can leave it to you then. 
Disconnect that instrument at seven o’clock. Not 
before; I might want to ring up for something.” 

“I understand, sir. As I sees it, the ole chap 
changes ’is togs, an’ then finds the invite ’as gorn 
astray. First thing ’e does is to telephone ’is pal 
George and ask if it’s orl right ’is cornin’ along.” 

“You’ve got it,” said B. J. “As a matter of fact, 
it will only delay him, but that’s not to be sneezed 
at. He’s a devilish determined chappie, and he’ll 
turn up anyhow, late or early.” 

“I could knock ’im on the ’ead,” said Albert 
helpfully. 

“You’d better not; they’d put you in prison for 
it, and I should lose a valuable—er—valet,” said 
B. J., and left the flat with his suit-case. 

He ate a small but carefully chosen dinner in the 
Piccadilly grill-room, speculating pleasantly about 
the evening before him. As he saw it the only fly 
in the ointment would be the smiling johnny, George 
Marsh, nineteenth baronet. After his meal he 
asked for a Debrett, and looked up Sir George 
[ 79 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

Marsh. He was there right enough; there was 
ostensibly nothing wrong about him. Yet a man 
with a smile like that, quite apart from the fishy 
proceedings with those papers, was obviously not 
an ardent follower of the straight and narrow 
path. 

And there was his lover-like attitude toward the 
girl. 

B. J. resisted the desire to walk down to Carlton 
House Terrace and take a look at No. 14A, and 
occupied the odd half-hour with gazing into the win¬ 
dow of a gunsmith’s in Shaftesbury Avenue. There 
was a display of lethal weapons in it that would have 
cheered the heart of the most murderous-minded. 

He went back to the hotel, changed into his 
ornate costume, and, with much the same emotions 
as a ravaging Chinese river-pirate might be ex¬ 
pected to have, took a taxi to Carlton House Ter¬ 
race. As he put on his mask a new terror struck 
him. Suppose he did not recognize her! 

Five minutes later he was in the ballroom, and 
his anxious, piratical eye had lit upon a slim figure 
in a rusty, tattered black silk frock. 

“Jove!” he said under his breath. “The same 
frock!” 

The next minute she was in his arms, and they 
were dancing, and B. J. was thanking the gods that 
he had had the leisure to become an expert. He 
danced as he had never danced before, and saw 
that George Marsh, nineteenth baronet, was stand- 
[so] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

ing near a pillar watching them with a wide and 
unpleasant smile which his mask did little to hide. 

II 

It is at this point that the story of B. J. becomes 
hopelessly entangled with affairs of State. At 
about the time of his early morning adventure the 
Foreign Office and the Home Office had decided 
to take up together a matter that was assuming 
proportions calculated to cause grievous harm to 
the community, and as usual they had decided 
suspiciously near the eleventh hour. 

In consequence of this Lord Arthur Frampton 
was regretting that he had allowed himself to be 
inveigled by Jacqueline into giving the bal masque; 
he was much too busy. He had spent the day at 
the Foreign Office in council with various heads 
of Departments, and had been endeavouring to get 
the Home Office to take several steps which were 
vitally necessary if the thing was to be settled ex¬ 
peditiously. He had not succeeded. The Home 
Office were, as he put it to Sir George Marsh when 
he reached home, “havering.” They excused them¬ 
selves from immediate action on the lack of 
evidence. There was not enough to warrant the 
drastic measures Lord Arthur Frampton insisted 
were absolutely necessary. 

“They’re slow-witted fools!” said Lord Arthur, 
and scowled at his confidential secretary. “If 
[8i] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

they’d only been able to get the Krein-Sutton papers 
it would be a very different matter. They would 
be standing on their heads yelling blue murder and 
asking for our help. 

“Yes,” said George, and he rubbed his hands 
together gently. “Yes. As a matter of fact, Jac¬ 
queline wants to see you particularly. She—er— 
she’s been taking a hand.” 

“Taking a hand? What the devil do you mean?” 

Lord Arthur, white-haired, pink-faced, excessively 
young, was known to his intimates as “Cheerful 
Artie,” but his day at the Foreign Office had sorely 
tried his cheery good-humour. His confidential 
secretary realized this, and forgave him his 
snappiness. 

“I mean that I rather believe she’s got hold of the 
Krein-Sutton papers,” he said quietly. 

“What!” Lord Arthur shouted, and to say that 
he exhibited surprise would be to put it mildly. 
“Get her, man! Bring her here! Are you sure?” 

“I’ve seen them,” said his secretary. “But there 
is one more point I would like to deal with before 
she comes. May I ring for Fitzsimons?” 

Lord Arthur nodded, and stared at Sir George 
with suspicious eyes. Had the man gone mad or 
something? That his niece should have the Krein- 
Sutton papers in her possession was little short of a 
miracle—an unbelievable miracle. 

Fitzsimons came at once, and stood motionless 

[82] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


by the large desk. He was tall—a man with a 
presence. 

“Would you .fetch me the invitation cards that 
have been handed in, Fitzsimons?” said Sir George. 

The butler bowed slightly. 

“And when you have done that, would you tell 
Miss Jacqueline that Lord Arthur wishes to speak 
to her?” 

Fitzsimons bowed again, and retired with dignity, 
to return a minute later with a bundle of the elab¬ 
orate invitation cards. 

“And now tell Miss Jacqueline,” said Sir George, 
who was enjoying the full sense of being very much 
in command of the situation. 

He ran quick fingers through the pile, selected 
one, and handed it to his chief. Lord Arthur took 
it and glanced at it. Then he rubbed his eyes and 
said: 

“Peter Sutton!” 

“Yes,” said his secretary. “I think we can deal 
with this matter here and now. There is all the 
evidence you need in those papers, and I took the 
—er—liberty of telephoning for two Scotland Yard 
men. We can get him in here and arrest him as 
quietly as we like and bucket him out of the game. 
The only thing is we may have to wait until mid¬ 
night, when the unmasking takes place. Pve been 
watching the crowd, and I can’t see anyone who 
looks like him. A mask is a most disconcerting 

[83] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

thing, and Sutton has nothing out of the ordinary 
about him, except that he’s on the tall side, as you 
know. But the ballroom seems full of tall men, and 
he might be any of them.” 

Here both men turned to Fitzsimons, who had 
coughed deprecatingly. 

“Excuse me, your lordship,” he said, “but Mr. 
Peter Sutton wears the costume of a Chinese man¬ 
darin. I particularly noticed it as it was not, if I 
might venture a personal opinion, in the usual run 
of fancy costumes. It was bright, very bright, your 
lordship.” 

“I saw it,” said Sir George, and he blessed the 
butler for removing the one flaw in his plan. “This 
will be the devil of a blow to the Sutton crowd,” he 
added. 

“It will! It will!” said Lord Arthur, as Fitz¬ 
simons went for Jacqueline. “Marsh, this business 
will bring you a lot of credit in the proper quarters; 
I can promise you that. But Jacqueline, how did 
she get the papers? Did her headquarters give her 
the job or something? They’re mad enough.” 

“No; but she’s been very anxious to get important 
jobs, and I am afraid I sympathized with her, and 
put her on the track of the packet. I had private 
information. She did all the spade-work of getting 
it, and did it remarkably well. But she’ll tell you 
all about it.” 

“Where is she? Where is she?” demanded his 
chief impatiently. Now that the way had been 

[84] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


made clear he was aching to get on with it. He had 
acquired his great reputation through the excellence 
of his executive powers, and once a thing had been 
started for him by circumstances or some one else 
he usually managed to bring it to a successful con¬ 
clusion. He began striding up and down the study 
with knit forehead, talking rapidly, half to himself 
and half to Sir George. 

“We must smash the conspiracy at its heart,” he 
said. “Direct action at home and abroad. Krein 
cannot do anything without Sutton’s co-operation 
from this side. These papers—they’ll contain the 
whole system, and it’s obviously a simple one. Must 
be—or it wouldn’t work. We ought to be able to 
dig into the middle of it easily enough.” 

“It’s been clever enough to beat the Secret Service 
people so far,” Sir George reminded him. 

“True. Where the devil is that girl?” said Lord 
Arthur. 

“She was dancing with Peter Sutton when I saw 
her last,” said Sir George. “He’s a cheerful old 
ruffian, but I doubt if he would appreciate the situ¬ 
ation of dancing with the woman who spent most 
of last night sending him to prison. Did you know 
they call him ‘Black Peter’?” he added, and laughed 
a short, hard laugh, which his chief would have re¬ 
alized was a very nervous one had he not been so im¬ 
patient to read the Krein-Sutton papers. 

Sir George Marsh, nineteenth baronet, had 
played Judas several times in his varied but inter- 

[ 85 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

esting life, but he had not yet learned to play it with 
the coolness and aplomb which his histrionic soul 
would have applauded. 

He was hindered on this particular occasion by 
a comparatively thorough knowledge of that benev¬ 
olent old gentleman who had so well earned the 
sobriquet of “Black Peter” in his dealings with the 
lesser lights of the criminal world. But it was, for 
all its thoroughness, only a sketchy knowledge. 
He knew, for instance, that the earlier years of his 
amazing partner had been spent in the bosom of an 
ancient family whose name occurred in Debrett with 
singular frequency. He knew that as a boy he had 
been brought up with an austerity and strictness that 
were triumphs of discipline in that they effectively 
circumvented the natural proclivities of a strangely 
ingenious mind. They succeeded until he reached 
the mature age of seventeen, when he had rebelled 
with a firmness that made it necessary for him to 
decamp at five o’clock in the morning. He left the 
ancestral home and stepped eagerly and with a 
bright eye into a life which offered little virtue, but 
plenty of scope for his ingenious mind, particularly 
since he chose, by way of a beginning, to ship before 
the mast of an East Indiaman. 

It had been a craft, and boasted a crew, of the 
old, true type, and aboard her and among them he 
had learnt avidly all those things he thought he 
wanted to know. This was followed by several 
[ 86 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

years of sheer adventuring among the hardest nuts 
of the tree of life in the shadiest of the world’s 
groves. It was natural, perhaps, that at the end of 
this phase he should have returned home to inherit a 
large fortune from a distant aunt who ought to 
have known better, and that he should have devoted 
it to the good work of employing his ingenious mind. 
Spasmodically he made the large fortune larger in 
a manner that would have shocked his dear aunt 
horribly. It was said by some that he never passed 
a good thing by—at all events it was to him that 
the adventurers of the world came to have their 
treasure-hunts financed and their pearling expedi¬ 
tions into forbidden waters floated in sound craft. 

Through it all he had kept the raw, physical at¬ 
tributes that a hard-hitting, tough-necked gentleman 
of fortune should possess, and it was the combina¬ 
tion of brawn and brain in him that the nineteenth 
baronet feared. Even Sutton’s marriage twenty- 
seven years ago to one of the gentlest women in 
Europe had not softened him save where she was 
concerned. Her early death had, if anything, only 
served to harden him more. The first time the 
nineteenth baronet had seen him he had thought 
that. He had gone to him with an excellent idea 
for making a lot of money quickly, and from it 
had sprung the partnership that had persisted so 
lucratively for them both until the present time. It 
had been cemented by his own entrance into political 

[873 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


life, for it had widened the field of their activity. 
But his appointment to the private secretaryship of 
Lord Arthur had decided him that the time had 
come for the older man to go. He was about to 
become respectable, and in that respectability Peter 
Sutton could have neither part nor place. And his 
exit must not throw anything but a shining light 
upon the person of George Marsh. But the old 
scoundrel was still very tough. 

He looked at Lord Arthur, who had stopped to 
scowl at the door. He knew him for a simple soul 
with an infinite trust in his parliamentary secretary. 
His vision, directed by his aristocratic nose, would 
never extend beyond the door at which he was look¬ 
ing, and which still showed no signs of admitting the 
butler. 

“Has Fitzsimons fallen dead that he takes such 
an age to carry a simple message?” said the older 
man testily, and resumed his caged-animal perambu¬ 
lation of the room. 


Ill 

The reason why Fitzsimons spent a comparatively 
long time in finding Jacqueline was that the Chinese 
river-pirate had discovered that in the beggar maid 
he had found a dancer who fitted in with the spirit 
and style of his dancing as no other girl had ever 
fitted; also she was the girl with the golden eyes who 
appeared a thorough-going adventuress in contradic¬ 
ts] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


tion of his firm conviction that she was as nice as any 
girl could be. 

The beggar maid, on the other hand, had dis¬ 
covered in the Chinese river-pirate one of the best 
dancers she had come across, and therefore had 
no scruples in dancing every dance with him. Also, 
although she could not make out who he was, she 
was aware that he was familiar to her, and set about 
searching her memory for the dance or party at 
which she must have met him. 

It was this false assumption, combined with a 
careful alteration in his voice—he made it a little 
hoarse—which B. J. had to thank for his immunity 
from detection. In the meantime he put from him 
the knowledge that if she learnt who he was she 
would not dance another step with him, and ad¬ 
dressed himself to the pleasant task of making him¬ 
self as agreeable as possible. 

It was not difficult, and when sheer fatigue made 
it necessary for them to rest he carried her off un¬ 
protesting into the most secluded corner of a se¬ 
cluded conservatory. At least she led the way, and 
with a knowledge of the topography of the house 
that placed beyond all doubt the fact that she was 
part of the menage. 

As they went B. J. tried to remember who Lord 
Arthur Frampton was, and could not. He had al¬ 
ways prided himself on his ignorance of important 
people and their positions, but he wished that for 
once his pride could have fallen in knowledge. He 

[89] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

had heard the man’s name often enough, but beyond 
Sir George’s vague remarks to his father he knew 
nothing. 

One thing, which he had noticed at once, was 
immensely cheering. That was the absence of any 
ring on the third finger of the girl’s left hand. 

They seated themselves on a low divan that was 
hidden in a thicket of tame palm-trees, and fell in¬ 
stantly into conversation. B. J. found that fehey had 
an unusually large fund of mutual interests, tastes, 
and inclinations, and he discussed these exhaustively. 
In the middle of it she said: 

“You are a surprising person. I wish I could re¬ 
member who you are.” 

B. J. was sincerely grateful that she could not, but 
he said: 

“Why?” 

“I can’t place you at all. If I’d met you any¬ 
where I should have talked to you probably, and if 

I’d talked to you we—we should-” She 

stopped, and B. J. pressed her to go on. 

“You mean we should have found that we had 
the same view of things?” 

“Won’t you tell me who you are? You know 
who I am, of course?” she said. 

B. J. allowed this to pass. He knew who she was 
—most certainly he did—but if she realized what 
that knowledge included! 

“Won’t you tell me?” she repeated, and B. J. had 
a little difficulty in resisting the pleading note in 

[90] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 


her deep voice. He laughed softly, and said 
nothing. 

“Please!” she said. 

“Not yet,” said B. J. 

The girl sat upright rather suddenly. 

“I don’t usually have to say ‘please’ twice.” 

“Pm afraid if you did you wouldn’t get it out of 
me,” said B. J. 

He was wishing devoutly that she would leave the 
awkward subject alone. Unfortunately, however, 
he had come up against the girl’s determination. 
His refusal to tell her had awakened the same spirit 
within her that her uncle had aroused when he had 
refused to let her work with him. 

“I shall find out,” she said, and sat back a little 
moodily. Then she took off her mask. 

“It’s a most uncomfortable thing to talk in,” she 
said. “I can’t see properly through it.” 

“Good!” said B. J. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Nothing,” he answered idiotically. He had an 
instinctive feeling that as things were it would be 
impolite to make love to her, and to have answered 
her question would have entailed that. He changed 
the subject quickly. “In what way am I a surpris¬ 
ing person?” he asked. 

She considered for a moment, as if deciding 
whether to put into words what she had in her mind, 
and then said: 

“You’re different.” 


[9i] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“Different? In what?” 

“That you haven’t tried to make love to me yet,” 
she said, with a frankness that took the pointedness 
out of the remark. 

B. J. was astounded, and he saw suddenly that in 
some way the fact had a value in her eyes. He had 
scored a point, and unintentionally, for he had been 
wanting to tell her what a wonderful girl she was 
most of the evening. Only instinctive caution had 
prevented him—and the fact that he had really 
never made love to anyone. If he had been prac¬ 
tised in the fine art he would probably have over¬ 
come his caution. 

He sat in silence, thinking it out, and she went on: 

“I’ve got very tired of the usual sort of man. 
They are horribly the same, you know. If a girl’s 
pretty and seems interested in what they say, they 
immediately think she’s interested in them. At 
once they leave off being interesting, and bore one 
with the story of their last love, and how infinitely 
preferable one is to her. They’re so crude.” 

“I see,” said B. J. 

Jacqueline had unburdened herself of these ob¬ 
servations in consequence of George’s outburst. 
Now that she could look back on it, she saw its 
crudity and lack of artistry, and it annoyed her. 
George had imagined that by helping her he had 
bought the right to make love to her—and he was 
wrong. 


[92] 


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B. J. came out of his silence and said: 

“I don’t know much about these things, but it 
seems to me that the usual run of girls encourage 
that sort of man. I don’t believe men would be like 
that if it didn’t—work, so to speak.” 

“Perhaps,” said the girl. “But men are such 
brutes!” And she seemed to be contemplating 
something unpleasant. B. J. squirmed mentally, 
for he knew what it was she was contemplating. 

“You’ve no idea what sort of men a girl comes 
across,” she said. “Girls see men as rather differ¬ 
ent creatures. A man’s view of a man is usually 
one-sided. Sometimes—they are horrible—horri¬ 
ble! Men who look as though they had the ele¬ 
ments of humanity about them, too.” Her voice 
was deep with resentment. 

B. J. still squirmed, longing to tell her that her 
view of him had been wrong—a mistake due to the 
miserable state of mind in which she had been—and 
at the same time vaguely satisfied that she should 
have thought him not unpleasant in the beginning. 
Again he switched the subject, watching the dark 
shadow of her eyes in the half-light. 

“Well, Pm glad Pm different,” he said, and she 
looked at him quickly. 

“Are you?” 

“I am. But I’m quite sure of one thing—I shall 
make love to you one day,” he added, and studied 
the palm-frond in front of him. 

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THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“Is that a threat or a promise?” 

“Whichever you like,” said B. J., and was aware 
of the golden eyes looking at him. 

Then she laughed softly, and put a hand impul¬ 
sively on his arm. 

“You are rather a dear,” she said. “And an 
awful simpleton. I like you.” 

B. J., thrilling with an unaccountable joy, cursed 
the footsteps of some one who came into the other 
end of the conservatory, and the voice that followed, 
smooth and precise. 

“Miss Jacqueline? Excuse me, but his lordship 
would like to see you in the study.” 

“Good!” said the girl, all the softness gone from 
her voice. “He’s home! I’ll see you again, but I 
must fly now. I’m so sorry!” 

The next moment she had gone, and the faint 
scent of her was left, suffusing B. J.’s senses with 
its mystery. The palms that had swayed as she 
passed were still again, and he was repeating over 
and over: 

“Jacqueline! Jacqueline!” 

He knew her name, and she had said: “I like 
you.” B. J. would have given the entire world, had 
he possessed it, to be able to obliterate the happen¬ 
ings of last night and the morning, to be able to 
start where this evening had begun. Never had he 
felt so elated, never so despondent. 

He saw the hoplessness of it all. She hated him 
as Bedford James Sutton; liked him as an unknown 
[ 94 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

Chinese river-pirate. She would despise him more 
than ever when she found out the trick he had 
played. She would not see it as the effort of a man 
to get near the girl he loved, but as a mean, con¬ 
temptible, underhand way of forcing his unwelcome 
attentions on her. Hadn’t she said that she never 
wanted to set eyes on him again—didn’t she think 
of him, speak of him, with loathing? And yet he 
had just heard her say, “I’ll see you again,” with 
the same red adorable lips. 

This one evening he had—one evening that was a 
happy dream in the midst of a hideous nightmare. 
One short evening that would have to last him for 
the rest of his days; there was nothing he could do. 
Explanations. What the devil’s use were they? 
The thing was beyond explanation—everything he 
had done and everything she thought he had done 
were built up in a vast barrier mortared together 
with the plaster of mystery and ignorance, over 
which he, of all the world, was least in a position 
to climb. God! Was there ever a soul in such 
torment ? 

He sat there, twisting his hands, and staring be¬ 
fore him. She would come back; she would be kind 
to him; she would sit close to him; and perhaps she 
would put her hand on his arm again. And he 
would know all the time that if she knew who he was 
she would rather die than do those things. 

The thought made him pull the mask farther 
down his face, wondering if it would stand by him. 
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THE SUTTON PAPERS 

And he must keep control of his voice—keep it 
hoarse. But what a swine’s game! He would tell 
her! He would say: “No, don’t touch me. I am 

Bedford James Sutton, the man who-” Then 

he repeated the words half aloud, and knew that he 
could not say them; could not see the golden eyes 
harden where they had been kind, or hear the deep 
voice tremble with hatred. He would see the thing 
out as it had started—then go, and never come neai 
her again. 


IV 

Jacqueline hurried into her uncle’s study with the 
Krein-Sutton papers held tightly in her hand. She 
had forgotten the bal masque, she had forgotten 
B. J., she had forgotten everything but the fact that 
by hook or by crook she was going to get her uncle’s 
consent to let her help him fight the enemies of her 
country. At least her country did not weigh so 
much with her as that she might fight, intrigue, 
scheme—do all the eminently desirable things her 
nature demanded. 

Jacqueline Chester was the result of a combina¬ 
tion of temperaments that fitted her as no other com¬ 
bination of temperaments could have done for a ca¬ 
reer of the kind she desired to enter. This was a 
mixture of Scotch and French, grafted on to a sound 
English stock. Her grandmother, Frampton’s 
mother, had been the daughter of a brilliant French 
[96] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 

diplomat. Her mother, Frampton’s sister, had in¬ 
herited all the French finesse and handed it on to 
Jacqueline. From her father, Adam Chester, a 
Glasgow whisky distiller of immense wealth, Jacque¬ 
line had inherited a Scottish tenacity and grit, tem¬ 
pered by the English clarity and breadth. The re¬ 
sult was a quick, alert, and occasionally impulsive 
mind, the impulsiveness checked and restrained by 
a shrewd, hard-headed Scottish caution. She was 
endowed with a gift for organization that was un¬ 
canny. It had organized and prolonged a fort¬ 
night’s stay with her uncle into one of two years, 
with a growing likelihood of its lasting for ever. 
And Lord Arthur, for all his fear of her, would not 
have let her return to Glasgow for half the pension 
he hoped one day to have. 

She found an interesting assembly in the study— 
her uncle, George, and two strange, determined- 
looking men. Her uncle dashed up to her with 
more haste than she believed he could show, and 
said: 

“Where have you been all this time ? The papers ! 
The papers ! Give them to me !” 

She handed them to him with a sense of triumph 
that George’s smiling face did not dull. 

Lord Arthur read the close-written matter of the 
papers with one of the two determined men. His 
face was alive with satisfaction. 

“We’ve got him! We’ve got him! Heavens! 
What a scheme!” 


[97] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“Got who?” asked Jacqueline. 

“Peter Sutton! And he’s in the house—now. 
We’re going to arrest him. Jacqueline, this is the 
most wonderful thing you could have done.” 

“George helped. I lost them, and he got them 
back,” she said. 

“It doesn’t matter. He told me the whole thing. 
You did all the hardest part of the work. He 
simply went to Peter Sutton and collared them it 
was easy. He says it was.” 

George nodded, but it had been a great deal 
easier than they imagined. 

“How did Peter Sutton get into the house? 
Where is he?” the girl asked. 

“Marsh got him here as a guest. He’s dressed 
as a Chinese mandarin,” said Lord Arthur. 
“Marsh says you’ve been dancing with him.” 

Jacqueline caught at the desk in front of her; 
there were little red lights dancing before her eyes. 
That was Peter Sutton! Peter Sutton! One of 
the greatest scoundrels in the country! 

“Are—are you sure?” she asked. “He-” 

“Perfectly. Fitzsimons identified him. You had 
better fetch him. That will be simplest, won’t 
it, Robertson?” 

“Aye, if the young leddy has been dancin’ wi’ him, 
he’ll no’ think it suspeecious if she asks him to come 
wi’ her,” said the thinner of the two determined 
men. 

Jacqueline spoke quietly. 

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THE SUTTON PAPERS 


“Pll fetch him,” she said, and went out of the 
room. On the threshold she added, under her 
breath: “And he nearly made a fool of me.” 

With feet that had wings she ran upstairs to her 
room, unlocked the drawer of her dressing-table, 
and took the vicious automatic from it; he might put 
up a fight. 


[99] 



CHAPTER V 


While B. J. waited with what patience he could 
muster for the girl’s return he experienced again a 
sudden memory of Miriam, which was followed by 
a strong feeling that he was being about as faithless 
a lover as ever had need of a breach of promise ac¬ 
tion to bring home to him his wickedness. It was 
perfectly true, however, that Miriam had broken 
off the engagement, but on the other hand nobody 
who knew her would suppose for a moment that she 
had meant it. He for one did not. 

Breaking off the engagement was one of her 
means of procedure which worked excellently as a 
rule, but in the case in point she seemed to have 
come to an exception. B. J. congratulated himself 
upon the lucky chance that she should have employed 
the corrective at such a moment, for it released him 
as effectively as anything could. He knew that 
even if he never saw the girl in black again after to¬ 
night he would never be able to look at other girls 
with kindly eyes. He did not want to see Miriam 
again; he saw only too clearly that he had not loved 
her; he saw also, in the manner of a vision, what 
sort of dog’s life she would have led him had she 
got him. 

[ioo] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


Here B. J. checked himself with much the same 
feelings as a man who finds himself speaking ill 
of the dead. Poor Miriam, it was a cad’s way of 
treating her; and in this thought he found that he 
had yet another burden of moral anguish to bear. 

If, however, he could have seen Miriam Blanch¬ 
ard at the moment he would not have troubled par¬ 
ticularly about her loss of himself. She was lying 
on a divan in her home in Collingham Gardens, and 
a rejuvenated Peter Sutton sat at her feet and con¬ 
templated her smooth, placid face with the eyes of 
twenty-one. 

If there had been a third person in the room— 
which there was not—he would have been forced to 
the conclusion that* they were getting on very well, 
and he would have been right. Indeed they were 
getting on so well that Peter Sutton had clean for¬ 
gotten about the bal masque at Carlton House 
Terrace. 

It was probably the luckiest piece of forgetfulness 
in his life, for if he had remembered it he would 
have followed the course Albert de Vere had fore¬ 
seen. He would have discovered the loss of his in¬ 
vitation card, and somehow or other, in spite of the 
disconnected telephone, would have informed Sir 
George. In which case the programme that Lord 
Arthur Frampton had just mapped out in the study 
would have panned out properly, and “Black Peter” 
would have got what he so richly deserved. 

As it was, his son got it, or a good deal of it, who 
[ioi] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


in the whole conglomeration of wild circumstance, 
of plot and intrigue, was probably the most innocent 
and the least reprehensible participator. Even 
then, at a point far advanced in the adventure, he 
was completely ignorant of the details of the under¬ 
lying motive of it all. He was certainly aware that 
they were there, but their nature was hidden from 
him. 

He wished that he had insisted on prising the 
whole thing out of his father at an early stage in 
the proceedings, when he had set out to recover 
the papers, for instance. If it had not been 
for his anxiety to see the girl again he might have 
done so. 

In the middle of his chaotic and emotional mental 
state he was aware of the returning footsteps of 
Jacqueline, and the next moment she was sitting by 
his side again, and smiling at him. 

“Pm sorry I had to rush away like that,” she said. 

B. J., for all his internal jumble of sensations, 
realized that there was something subtly wrong with 
her smile and the tone of her voice. Had she dis¬ 
covered him? Then he dismissed the idea; it came 
from the fear that she might. She would have 
shown it at once, and with no subtlety. 

The suggestion she made did not therefore 
arouse any suspicions in him. 

“You were talking about books,” she said. “I 
should like to show you mine. Will you come?” 
And she rose. 

[102] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


“I should like to,” he answered, and followed her 
out of the conservatory. 

As she led the way to the study and the waiting 
upholders of the civic peace she felt, for the first 
time since the discovery that the Chinese river-pirate 
was a pirate indeed, a vague dissatisfaction with 
him, not for being what he was, but for acting a part 
with her that was not genuine. In an uncanny way 
he had impressed her as being something akin to the 
type of man she always told herself she could most 
easily love. He had displayed, cleverly, many of 
the characteristics she admired. But he was Peter 
Sutton—and he was capable of anything. 

She wished she had met him before, so that she 
could have recognized him and been on her guard 
against him. This reminded her that he had been 
vaguely familiar, and she came to the conclusion 
that his son must be like him. She stole a back¬ 
ward glance at the lower part of his face, which was 
visible below the mask; it was still young-looking, 
and the chin full of determination—as it would need 
to be for him to do the things he did. She under¬ 
stood why he would not unmask or tell her who he 
was; and she had thought that he was teasing her. 

With the vague dissatisfaction still in her heart 
she waited for him when she reached the study 
door; then opened it and let him pass in. Imme¬ 
diately she stepped swiftly after him and closed the 
door, putting her back to it. 

B. J. faced the four men with surprise and be- 

[103] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

wilderment. There was something unpleasant 
about the way they stood and looked at him. In¬ 
stinctively he turned to the girl, and jumped. A 
menacing automatic was in her hand, and her eyes 
were hard—harder than he imagined they could be. 
His heart became suddenly heavy. 

“What—what is it?” he began, trying to realize 
it all. 

“Only that we’ve got you,” said the white-haired 
man by the desk. 

“Aye,” confirmed the thin, emaciated man on the 
left in a satisfied voice. 

B. J. glanced quickly at them, saw George and his 
perpetual smile, and scowled at him. 

“Take off his mask,” said Lord Arthur Frampton. 

B. J. suddenly understood, for he saw the sheaf 
of closely written pages on the desk, and by their 
side an invitation card. They thought he was his 
father! Then he realized that the girl was mov¬ 
ing forward to remove his mask. He stepped aside 
and said: 

“Look here. This is a mistake!” 

At the sound of his voice Sir George Marsh 
stiffened and peered at him. 

“Damn!” he said. “It’s the wrong man. He’s 
not Peter Sutton!” 

“What?” said Lord Arthur. “Not Black Peter?” 

“No,” said B. J. in the hoarse voice he had been 
using all the evening. “I’m certainly not Peter 
Sutton.” 

[104] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


“Then who the devil are you?” demanded 
George, who realized that a bungle at this point was 
the last thing to be desired, for Black Peter loose, 
with the knowledge of what his partner had done, 
would be disastrous—for the partner. 

Jacqueline had stopped short at the sudden turn 
of events, and was conscious of an odd joy that there 
had been a mistake. She lowered the pistol and 
waited. He would take his mask off himself, and 
she would see his face. 

B. J. did nothing of the kind. The moment he 
saw that a mistake had been made his mind recov¬ 
ered its nimbleness, and he realized in the second 
of time the whole thing occupied that the four men 
were badly nonplussed, and that there might still 
be a chance of his getting away without the girl dis¬ 
covering who he was. He dared not face her ha¬ 
tred and scorn again; rather let her forget him as a 
stranger. For forget him she would. 

This rapid sequence of thought was followed by 
an even more rapid sequence of action. He turned, 
brushed the girl aside, opened the door, and dashed 
through, slamming it after him in almost one 
movement. 

To the already muddled occupants of the study 
it seemed that one moment he was there and the next 
he was not. Sudden flight was the last thing in the 
world they were expecting from him. If they had 
still believed him to be Peter Sutton it would have 
been another matter; but they were about to enter 

[105] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

into explanations and apologies to an unfortunate 
and innocent victim of a mistake. 

Jacqueline, who had the automatic, was the first 
to realize what had happened, and she did nothing. 
Why, she could not have explained. The result 
was that B. J. was able to turn the corner at the end 
of the short corridor before Robertson, the Scotland 
Yard man, could cross the room and get the study 
door open. He got it open, however, and, followed 
by George and the other detective, ran to the end 
of the corridor into the wide hall. 

In the middle of it a footman was sitting on a 
bearskin rug, rubbing his jaw reflectively. The 
front door was open, and through it heavy waves of 
yellow fog were rolling into the hall. 

The chase came to a sudden stop. There was 
not the slightest chance of finding anyone on such 
a night. George, trembling with anxiety, his smile 
gone from his face, demanded querulously: 

“Who the devil was he?” 

Robertson shrugged his shoulders. 

“One o’ the gang, I suppose, if he came in on yon 
invitation card. Ye say he was not Peter Sutton.” 

“No,” said George, and he led the way back to 
the study. 

He was far more puzzled than the others, since, 
for all that the stranger had worn a mask, he felt 
he ought to have recognized him if he had been a 
member of what Robertson termed “the gang.” 
And he had not. 


[106] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


He threw himself into the business of drawing up 
a plan for the smashing of the organization. It 
had got to be smashed now, utterly and completely, 
if he was to have any peace of mind. 

They worked it out, Jacqueline and the four men, 
long after the last guest had gone, until it was per¬ 
fect to the smallest details. When the girl went up 
to her room she was tired but triumphant. She had 
arranged a niche for herself in the completed plan, 
and she was eager to get to work. 

Before she fell asleep she heard the voice of the 
Chinese river-pirate saying, “I shall make love to 
you one day.” She was conscious of the tremen¬ 
dous relief a remark of George’s had brought her 
when he came back to the study after chasing the 
unknown. It had come at a moment when she was 
thinking that by flight the pirate had confessed guilt, 
but George had said: 

“He’s not one of Black Peter’s crowd. I’m dead 
sure of that. But who the deuce is he?” 

Jacqueline did not know that he had said it more 
to convince himself than for any other reason, little 
realizing that in reality he was right. The effect, 
however, remained, and she wondered sleepily 
where, when, and in what guise the pirate would 
carry out his intention. 

It was awfully good fun, being alive. 

When B. J. blundered out into the fog with his 
knuckles still tingling from their contact with the 
[ I0 7] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


the jaw of the young footman he was aware of only 
one desire—to get as far away from Carlton House 
Terrace as possible—and he ran for some five min¬ 
utes in a direction he hoped would take him up 
Lower Regent Street toward the hotel. Then he 
noticed the fog, and that it was extremely unlikely 
that he was being pursued. He set about discover¬ 
ing his exact position at once, and noticed that in 
front of him the fog was faintly luminous, and, as he 
proceeded toward it, realized that it was caused by 
the sky signs in Piccadilly. 

The damp clamminess of the night was refresh¬ 
ing after the violence of his exit from the bal 
masque, and he began to think more clearly. The 
first thing that struck him was that Sir George 
Marsh had been more perturbed than any of the 
others when he discovered that he had got the wrong 
man, and it confirmed his suspicions that the amiable 
George was in the process of selling his father, and 
that George wanted to get it over as quickly as 
possible. B. J. did not know which of the two was 
the greater ruffian, but he certainly disliked the nine¬ 
teenth baronet instinctively. It may, of course, 
have been a dislike due to that nobleman’s lover-like 
attitude toward the girl in black—Jacqueline. B. 
J. sighed. He had her name to remember her by, 
but it was a doubtful comfort. 

He tackled the situation with very creditable 
promptitude when he got into his room at the Pic¬ 
cadilly Hotel. He did not wait to change his 
[i°B] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

clothes before ringing up the Flat in Half Moon 
Street. To his relief he found that Albert de Vere 
had reconnected the instrument, and his cheerful 
voice greeted B. J. at the other end. 

“Has my father come back?” B. J. asked him. 

“No, sir. Can’t make it out.” 

B. J. considered. Then he said: 

All right; if he comes in during the next few 
minutes tell him to come to the Piccadilly Hotel at 
once and ask for me. In the meantime pack a suit¬ 
case for me, write a note to Mrs. Coombes telling 
her that I had to leave town unexpectedly, and that 
I will post her her money. Leave it on the kitchen 
table. Then bucket round here at once with the 
suit-case—Piccadilly Hotel. Got that?” 

Albert de Vere’s quick “Yes, sir!” cracked like a 
pistol-shot in B. J.’s ear. 

It was followed instantly by the click of the re¬ 
ceiver hook. At a time like this Albert de Vere 
would have every opportunity of proving his worth, 
and B. J. had every confidence that he would. He 
turned to the problem of finding his father with the 
knowledge that the flat would be evacuated be¬ 
fore Scotland Yard reached it. That it would be 
searched he was sure, for he had had no difficulty in 
recognizing the two determined-looking men as de¬ 
tectives. Peter Sutton had in some way managed 
to offend his country’s law, and B. J., through sheer 
clannishness, felt it incumbent upon him to warn the 
old chap. Also, in warning him, he was going to 
[ I0 9] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


discover what it was all about. That knowledge 
had been hidden from him long enough. 

The only clue he had to his father’s whereabouts 
was his remark that Miriam had asked him to tea, 
and his telling Sir George Marsh in the middle of 
the afternoon that he had a tea appointment. 

B. J. therefore rang up Miriam, and after a pause 
got through to her. The sound of her voice irri¬ 
tated him, even in the midst of his anxiety. He 
used his hoarse voice again in order to save time— 
if she recognized it it might take him twenty min¬ 
utes to get the information he wanted. So he asked 
without preamble: 

“What time did Mr. Peter Sutton leave?” 

There was a perceptible pause before she an¬ 
swered. Then she said: 

“Who are you? Why do you want to know?” 

“It’s a matter of extreme urgency,” said B. J. in 
a decisive but impersonal tone. “I’ve got to know 
where he is.” 

B. J. was pleased with the progress he had made; 
he had learnt that his father had been to Miriam’s, 
but he was in no way prepared for the next remark, 
which came unexpectedly in a deep, male voice: 

“Peter Sutton speaking. Who is that?” 

B. J. gripped the receiver and said quickly: 

“Bedford speaking. I was afraid I was not going 
to find you. Look here, you’ve got to come to the 
Piccadilly Hotel at once, and on no account go near 
the flat. Your partner—Marsh—has spilt the 
[no] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

beans and there’s no end of a fuss going on. The 
police seem to want you rather badly. But I’ll ex¬ 
plain it when you come, and for God’s sake hurry!” 

There was a smothered imprecation at the other 
end of the wire, followed by Peter Sutton’s voice, 
controlled with difficulty: 

“All right. I’ll come at once.” 

B. J. put down the telephone and changed into his 
more civilized if less romantic blue lounge suit. His 
mind had come to a point where further speculation 
was beyond it, and he waited for his father in a 
mood approaching apathy. The only thought that 
ran through his brain, and which kept repeating it¬ 
self with monotonous persistency, was: “I shall 
never see her again. I shall never see her again.” 

It did not worry him that he should have left her 
in a manner which clearly proved his guilt of some 
crime. She would forget him, and that—as he was 
sure while she remembered him it would be with con¬ 
tempt—was merely another horror to add to the 
others. He did not know what he was going to do; 
he did not care. He supposed he would go abroad, 
anywhere so long as it took him from her immediate 
neighbourhood; from the streets in which she would 
walk and in which he might see her; from the circle 
in which she moved and in which he might meet her. 

It was not surprising that the troubles of his 
father should not strike deep into his sympathy, but, 
on the other hand, he had no desire to reproach 
him for the misery he had brought upon him. 

[m] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

Peter Sutton and Albert de Vere both arrived to¬ 
gether. B. J. let his father in, and said quickly to 
a cheerful and expectant Albert: 

“Keep in the background until I call you.” 

Then he shut the door and turned to his father, 
whose face was more lined and haggard than ever. 
He put the story briefly; it was no time for elaborate 
detail. 

“I went to the bal masque at Lord Arthur’s,” he 
said. “They had arranged a trap for you. They 
have those papers you gave that chap Marsh this 
afternoon, and they thought I was you. They tried 
to arrest me, discovered they had the wrong man, 
and I got away in the muddle. There were two 
Scotland Yard men there. I thought I’d give you 
the tip.” 

His father nodded, and sat down on the chair by 
the bed. He did not speak for a moment. When 
he did it was in a voice thick with rage. 

“George Marsh did this,” he said. “And like a 
dam’ fool I didn’t take Krein’s warning. Krein 
said he knew Marsh, and advised me to have noth¬ 
ing to do with him. The swine! The swine!” 

B. J. watched the old man carefully, realizing 
that he was listening to Black Peter, and suddenly 
the fact that he was his father lost all meaning for 
him. 

“From the way they talked and the way they 
looked,” he said, “they were confident that they held 
all the trumps.” 

[H2] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


“Yes,” said Black Peter; “they hold all the 
trumps.” 

His rage seemed to have evaporated and his voice 
was dull and spiritless. 

“What are you going to do?” B. J. asked 
him. 

“Get out of it,” said the other. “Tip the others 
and get out.” 

“You’ll have to do it dam’ quick,” said B. J. 
“They won’t wait for you to write letters.” 

“No, they won’t.” Then he added under his 
breath: “George Marsh! George Marsh!” 

B. J. made an impatient gesture, and said: 

“You’ve got to do what you want to do—now.” 
Black Peter looked at him thoughtfully, and then 
picked up the telephone and asked for a number. 
The exchange got it for him, and he said: 

“Scatter. Reassemble in fourteen days at Num¬ 
ber Two. Destroy all papers at Number One. 
Immediate.” And he put the receiver on its hook. 

“Is that all?” asked B. J. 

“Yes. I can catch the boat train at midnight. 
It’s eleven-thirty now.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“Ostend—Hotel Splendide.” The old man sud¬ 
denly threw off his low spirits and became animated. 
He took a cheque-book out of his pocket and scrib¬ 
bled on a form with his fountain pen, tore it out, 
and handed it to B. J. The young man looked at 
it, and his jaw dropped. It was made out to him, 
[U3] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


and was for thirty-seven thousand pounds. He 
glanced sharply at his father, who added: 

“It’s all right. That’s the lot. Take it out; 
start an account with it, and send me what sums I 
ask for from time to time, and try not to exceed your 
own allowance. The rest is invested and is quite 
safe.” 

B. J. said nothing. There was nothing to say. 
The old chap seemed to be perfectly sane. 

“Well, I’ll be getting along, Bedford,” he went 
on. “If you see Miriam, give her my love and say 
I was sorry to have to leave so hurriedly.” 

Black Peter reached for his hat. He was in the 
midst of one of the most awkward situations of a 
life full of awkward situations, and he was as cool 
as a cucumber—too cool, as his eyes showed. They 
glowed evilly. 

B. J., however, was not going to face another day 
of ignorance. He caught his father by the sleeve, 
and said: 

“Pater, it’s up to you to tell me the whole thing. 
I’ve earned the right to know by mixing myself up 
in it—by getting your papers back and by warning 
you when you might easily have been caught. What 
does it all mean?” 

“They wouldn’t have caught me,” said his father 
with quiet conviction. “But at the same time I ap¬ 
preciate your efforts.” 

B. J. repressed the desire to remark that it was 
really dashed kind of him to admit it, and waited for 

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the explanation which did not come. Instead, his 
father began by taking a stamped postcard from his 
pocket-book and writing on it. He addressed it, 
and handed it to B. J. 

“Post it first thing to-morrow morning. I shan’t 
have time to-night,” he said. 

B. J. looked at it. It was to Sir George Marsh, 
Bart., and ran: 

Dear George, 

Nothing on the face of the earth will prevent me killing 
you. I shall probably shoot you in the back. 

Black P. 

B. J. glanced at this surprising father, and saw 
him nod complacently to himself. 

His general sprightliness was aggravating to B. 
J.’s miserable heart and dissatisfied mind, and rather 
naturally he burst out with an impatience that bor¬ 
dered on anger. His combative instincts were 
aroused. 

“This is all very well,” he said. “All too 
damned well for words, but where do I come in? 
It seems to me that the least you owe me is some 
sort of explanation. All you do is to hand me a 
cheque for thirty-seven thousand, and write a 
threatening postcard and give it me to post. It’s 
fantastic!” 

Black Peter raised his eyebrows. 

“It’s all very well, I say,” B. J. went on. “You’re 
my father and all that, but I’ll be shot if I’m going 

[US] 


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to be kept in the dark as if I was a small boy with¬ 
out a mind or sense of responsibility of my own. 
This business has as much to do with me as it has 
with you now, and Pm not going to have you walk 
out of here after patting me on the head. It’s not 
good enough!” 

“You’ve got infernally curious all of a sudden,” 
said his father. “You’ve soaked up your allowance 
all these years without any question as to how I 
earned it for you. Why should you know now?” 

“Yes; I suppose I have been a bit trusting,” re¬ 
marked B. J. in a bitter voice. 

The other laughed shortly. 

“ ‘Trusting.’ Only a fool trusts, but we’re all 
fools. I trusted Marsh.” 

“That obvious fact doesn’t make it any easier for 
me to digest the discovery that my father is a 
crook.” 

The older man regarded the younger closely and 
curiously, as if seeing him for the first time. 

“I believe, my dear Bedford, that you are enjoy¬ 
ing what is called a moral sense,” he said thought¬ 
fully. “Well, Fve got five minutes if you want the 
yarn.” 


[n6] 


CHAPTER VI 


“You’ve heard of Krein,” began Black Peter. 
“Well, Krein is the mainspring of the active Soviet 
in Russia. He represents the chief foreign activity 
of the present Communist group in Russia, which is 
stronger, financially and politically, than any other 
previous body in revolutionary Russia.” 

This sounded to B. J., impatient for solid, tan¬ 
gible fact, suspiciously like a political lecture. He 
wished the old man would hurry to the main issue. 
If he went on as he was starting there would be 
little likelihood of his having time to finish and catch 
the midnight boat train as well. 

“Yes,” said B. J. “You’ve only five minutes, you 
know.” 

But Black Peter, thorough in all things, proceeded 
at his own speed. 

“Their activities, through Krein,” he went on, 
“have been felt in every European country, and their 
influence, coming as it does from the inside, has been 
a good deal more successful than the authorities re¬ 
alize. In this country alone there are two hundred 
thousand men, not only working men, but also intel¬ 
lectuals, who are in full sympathy with their princi¬ 
ples and doctrine, and who are prepared, if neces¬ 
sary, to strike a blow for Freedom.” 

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This was certainly a political lecture, and the 
manner in which it poured from Peter Sutton’s 
mouth convinced B. J. that it was the result of a 
memory for exact words. It was nothing if it was 
not parrot-like. “A blow for Freedom” had been 
a slogan in the mouths of the revolutionists since the 
beginning of history, and it sounded ridiculous from 
the lips of Black Peter, and although B. J. had then 
but the vaguest idea of his father’s code he realized 
it instinctively. 

His father’s next words stupified him. 

“I have espoused the cause of Freedom,” said 
Peter Sutton, with a somewhat grand air. “And I 
am the pivot on which the British movement 
swings.” 

“Good God!” saidB. J. 

“Yes. Without me it would have been as futile 
as the previous attempts. As it is this one might 
have been wrecked if our friend Frampton had not 
followed his usual custom of doing things twenty- 
four hours late.” 

B. J. was on his feet, gazing down on his father 
with horrified, unbelieving eyes. 

“You mean—that you—you are a traitor?” 

“Come, come, Bedford! That’s a strong word 
to use. It is purely a matter of business—purely.” 

“I see. Business.” B. J., accustomed to shocks 
as he had learnt to be, was unable to appreciate ex¬ 
actly what this piece of news signified. He had 

[n8] 


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been expecting some kind of precious villainy, but 
nothing of the type or on the scale of this. 

“What are the details?” he asked. “What ex¬ 
actly do you do? What part do you play?” 

“I co-operate with Krein in the matter of arming 
the upholders of the flag of Liberty,” said Peter 
Sutton, and added: “For certain sums. It is, as 
you have seen, a risky business.” 

B. J. was silent for a moment. 

“What was in those papers?” 

“The scheme we employ, or rather employed— 
for we shall have to find another—of getting the 
arms and ammunition into the country from Russia.” 

“And that has fallen into the hands of the 
authorities?” 

“It has. But it has served its purpose. There’s 
a chance, however, that the ship might get caught. 
It started from Archangel on Saturday and is due 
at the meeting-place in three days’ time. At the 
same time I shouldn’t like to have the catching of 
her. She’s armed with quick-firers and one four- 
point-nine.” 

“I see. Where is the meeting-place?” 

“The Terschelling Sands—North Sea. The 
stuff is transferred into fishing-boats, and landed 
at various points—mainly the small harbours on 
the east and south coasts—and conveyed by lorries 
to the storing centres, ready for distribution when 
the time comes. The fact that the coastguards have 

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been done away with by an economical ministry helps 
us considerably.” 

Black Peter was oblivious of the expression on 
his son’s face; his enthusiasm for his scheme and 
the success of it effectively blinded him to it. 

“It sounds pretty damnable,” said B. J. “Pretty 
beastly damnable.” 

His father looked at him. 

“It pays,” he said. “It pays—and is going to 
pay still—better than anything I’ve touched for the 
last five years. Better even than the munition 
contracts.” 

B. J. was not listening. He was conscious only 
of one thing, and that a sense of helplessness. He 
understood Jacqueline’s attitude toward him as the 
son of Peter Sutton. She thought him the vilest of 
traitors, and with every justification for doing so. 
Had he not been in actual possession of the in¬ 
criminating papers—the papers known to the anx¬ 
ious authorities as the Krein-Sutton papers—and 
had he not striven to prevent them falling into the 
hands of those same authorities with all the deter¬ 
mination of a man who knew what such a calamity 
would mean? She could not for a moment have 
imagined that in his words and actions at the police 
court he had been playing the part of a disinterested 
philanthropist. She knew why he had bluffed her 
into giving him back the packet. He saw, too, what 
she had meant when she said: “You could not send 
me to prison—you will not send me to prison.” She 
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THE SUTTON PAPERS 


meant that he would not dare send her to prison be¬ 
cause it would mean landing himself in the very hole 
out of which he was striving to keep. 

He turned to his father and said: 

“I think youVe done enough here. I should go 
to Ostend, and stay there for a bit—if you can get 
there.” 

“I can, I can,” said Peter Sutton cheerfully. 
“Er—on second thoughts I’ll post that card to 
George myself. I don’t want it to go astray. I 
want him to get it.” 

B. J. handed it over mechanically, and saw the 
door shut on his father with a keen sense of relief. 
The air of the room seemed fresher and the lights 
brighter. He sat on the bed with his chin in his 
hands, arranging and rearranging the issues of the 
discovery of his father’s villainy until a grey dawn 
filtered through the curtains. 

He saw, only too clearly, that his escape from the 
house in Carlton House Terrace had been a piece 
of amazing luck; that if they had unmasked him 
he would have left the place handcuffed and a 
proven traitor. The girl would have recognized 
him, Sir George Marsh would have recognized him, 
and it would have been the finish. Then he realized 
that the nineteenth baronet knew the truth, for he 
had been hand in glove with his father, working 
with him, making money out of the dastardly plot 
with him—until it suited him to clear out and sell 
the man who had trusted him. Marsh knew that 
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Black Peter’s son had had nothing to do with the 
thing; that he had simply been an ignorant tool with 
a certain sense of duty to his father. 

On this slight reason for hope came a far more 
depressing certainty: that nothing in the world 
would induce Sir George Marsh to clear him. The 
careless manner in which he had engineered the 
role of scapegoat for a young man he had never 
seen proved that, and, at the same time, for him to 
display too much knowledge of the gang he was out 
to smash would inevitably bring suspicion on him. 
Even as things were he was playing a risky game. 

The more B. J. chased shreds of hope about his 
chaotic mind the more elusive and tattered did they 
become. With the grey dawn came the grey mist 
of despair. Things had been bad enough the eve¬ 
ning before, God knew, but how infinitely worse 
were they now! 

He walked to the window and drew back the cur¬ 
tains, shivering, for the air of the November morn¬ 
ing was keen. The fog of the night before had 
lifted, and the empty stretch of Piccadilly below was 
wet and dreary, closely in accord with his own misery 
and hopelessness. Then he remembered Albert de 
Vere and went to the door; the poor devil had prob¬ 
ably been wandering about all night. 

Albert, however, was nowhere to be seen, and B. 
J. undressed and got into bed, where he lay until 
eight-thirty, tired, wretched, and sleepless. At 
eight-thirty he got up, washed, shaved, dressed, and 
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THE SUTTON PAPERS 


descended to breakfast. Albert de Vere did not 
show up; and B. J. ate the meal with none of the 
accustomed care and thought he was wont to lavish 
on that most important repast. After it, however, 
he felt better, and his natural optimism revived a 
little. He smoked a cigarette almost with enjoy¬ 
ment, and decided that there are few human prob¬ 
lems that cannot be solved if a man goes about 
them in the proper way—with determination and 
intelligence. 

B. J. was still very young. 

At nine-fifteen Albert de Vere walked into the 
lounge wearing a glorious creation of the most 
beautiful check suiting. He also boasted a bright 
emerald-green tie and cloth-topped boots of a good, 
rich yellow. The staff of the Piccadilly knew him at 
once for a South American millionaire, and let him 
pass without undue misgivings. To B. J.’s har¬ 
rowed nervous system, however, his valet was a 
distinct and unpleasant shock. He half closed his 
eyes, and said: 

“Good heavens, Albert, what the devil have you 
been doing?” 

“You didn’t call when your father left, sir, so I 
hassumed that you’d not be requirin’ me. I went 
’ome to sleep, sir, and collected some of me stuff.” 
He waggled a suit-case. 

B. J. eyed it suspiciously, and hoped that its con¬ 
tents did not outvie their owner’s present glory. 

“I see. All right. Er—I think it would be bet- 

[123] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

ter if we bought you some proper valeting clothes. 
It’s a pity we can’t go back to Half Moon Street 
and find something there for you—we’ll have to go 
shopping.” 

“Don’t these do, sir?” said Albert de Vere in a 
stricken voice. 

“That’s just it. They do,” said B. J. 

“Very good, sir,” said Albert de Vere. “Cleared 
up the mystery, sir?” 

B. J. nodded gloomily, and Albert looked at him 
sympathetically. 

“I know,” he said. “We can’t all of us put it 
acrorst.” His tone was that of one considering in 
Black Peter one of the less successful, less astute 
members of his profession. He did not ask ques¬ 
tions, however, and B. J. appreciated his tact. He 
would have been quite within his rights to want to 
know. 

When they had finished the congenial task of buy¬ 
ing Albert his outfit at a convenient “ready-made” 
establishment, where he changed into less furious 
apparel, B. J. took Albert down to Carlton House 
Terrace to show him the house he wanted watched, 
for he had decided that if he were never to see the 
girl in black again he might at least keep himself 
familiar with her movements. It was a decision 
governed by no inquisitive or ulterior motive, but 
he simply felt that in knowing what she did with 
her days, where she went and what she wore, he 
would find a measure of comfort. He would have 
[ I2 4] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

liked to do the watching himself, but realized that it 
would be running the risk of recognition, whereas 
Jacqueline had seen Albert very little—a few min¬ 
utes in the flat—and provided he was not allowed 
to wear the garments of a South American million¬ 
aire he would be comparatively inconspicuous. Also 
Albert was probably a far better sleuth both by 
training and inclination than he. 

As they came within sight of No. 14A the door 
opened, and the girl herself, accompanied by a dark, 
dapper youth, slim and elegant, and dressed in a 
manner that excited B. J.’s expert appreciation, 
walked down the steps and turned toward the Mall. 
The girl wore an extravagant sable coat and a 
broad, drooping black picture hat. B. J. tightened 
his lips, and said, “There she is!” and dragged Al¬ 
bert de Vere behind a pillar-box; to see her again, 
and again with a man, disturbed and troubled him. 
This time, however, he perceived that the attitude 
of the young man with her was not lover-like. It 
was perfectly polite, but at the same time vaguely 
disinterested, and, adding to this an undoubted like¬ 
ness to her, B. J. came to the conclusion that he 
must be her brother. The likeness was difficult to 
be quite sure about at such a distance, but he could 
see that he was of the same build and carried his 
head at the same rather imperious angle. 

B. J. signed to Albert, and they sauntered slowly 
in the wake of the couple. 

“The chap’s a torf orl right,” volunteered Albert 

[125] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

de Vere at the end of twenty yards. “Look at the 
way ’e ’olds ’isself. An’ she seems to ’ave tidied up 
a bit since the night afore last.” 

“Yes,” said B. J., and began wondering at the 
change in him that permitted such promiscuous 
eavesdropping. He comforted himself with the 
thought that it was not really eavesdropping. 
Eavesdropping implied overhearing a conversation 
rather than trailing in a person’s wake; besides, his 
motives were simple and pure. He wanted to be 
near her and be able to see her. It did not occur to 
him to want to know what she was talking about. 

In the midst of these reflections he was startled 
by a sudden change in the plans of the two. They 
stopped, spoke together for a moment, and then the 
slim young man turned and began walking toward 
them, and the girl continued in the original direction. 
B. J. thought rapidly, and said to Albert: 

“Follow her. Return to the hotel at one o’clock 
and report unless there is something interesting go¬ 
ing on. In which case carry on.” 

Albert nodded his sharp face with the slightest 
of comprehensive jerks and walked on. B. J. 
studied a shop-window until the young man had 
passed, and then turned and went after him. He 
had an unformulated intention of getting to know 
him. It might help in that dim and distant future 
which his natural optimism strove to convince him 
would come. 

He was able to keep much closer to his man than 
[126] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


before, secure in the knowledge that he was un¬ 
known to him. As he walked he turned over in his 
mind a succession of ingenious but rather impossible 
schemes for forcing acquaintanceship on the quarry. 
He could knock his hat off, rescue him from beneath 
the wheels of a motor-bus, or lend him money at a 
critical moment. But in the first case he would 
probably only curse him for being a clumsy idiot, 
in the second he would have to fall under the bus to 
be rescued from it, and the contingency of the third 
did not seem likely when one considered his well- 
groomed, prosperous appearance. 

The trail led up Lower Regent Street, into Jer- 
myn Street, and paused for a while at Hawes and 
Curtis’ in Piccadilly Arcade, where the young man 
entered, and could be seen through the glass door 
selecting ties with evident firmness of choice. The 
difficult proceeding lasted twenty-three minutes, and 
B. J. was unfeignedly relieved when it was over, 
for during the wait he had come to the conclusion 
that the only possible way of getting to know the 
young man was to stick close to him and pray for 
some providential opportunity to give him an ex¬ 
cuse, and was therefore eager for movement to 
bring it. 

The progress down Jermyn Street and up into 
Piccadilly was slow. There were a good many peo¬ 
ple on the pavement, and the shop-windows evi¬ 
dently attracted the dark youth’s interest. He 
spent quite seven minutes before an imposing array 
[ I2 7] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

of hair tonics, and a showroom full of luxurious 
cars occupied another nine or ten. Never in his 
life, B. J. decided, had he come across such an ear¬ 
nest believer in man’s right to the leisure of the 
hours. Although it annoyed him to a certain ex¬ 
tent, it excited his admiration, and further told him 
that when he did confront the disciple of leisure 
with the banner of friendship he would in all prob¬ 
ability hail it with acclamations of joy. At the 
moment he looked incredibly bored. 

He led B. J. half-way down Piccadilly and con¬ 
founded him by turning into B. J.’s own club, 
the Junior Parthenon. B. J. saw instantly the ad¬ 
vantages the move held for him, for although the 
Junior Parthenon is one of those sociable clubs 
where no member is ever seen in conversation with 
any other member and the breaking of such an un¬ 
written law would excite suspicion, that suspicion 
was a risk B. J. was prepared to take. He would 
seize the first opportunity that offered and suggest 
to the young man that they had been in the same 
division in France. It was quite likely, since B. J. 
had been in most of them. 

With this end in view he followed the youth up 
the broad staircase and into the library, thanking 
his stars that so far the fact that he was being 
sleuthed had not dawned on him. B. J. went 
straight across the room to a shelf that groaned 
under an accumulation of works on biology and took 
a volume from it. The young man had begun 
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turning over the sheets of a large atlas on the centre 
table, and B. J. carried his book to it and sat down 
on the chair next but one to the young man. 

In such close proximity to him he was able to 
observe the likeness he bore to Jacqueline, and came 
more firmly to the conviction that he was indeed her 
brother. He had the same sensitive nose, and the 
set of the eyes was curiously similar. Their colour 
was less golden, it was true, but only a little. 
If B. J. had been an ordinary observer, and less 
exact in his memory of the girl’s eyes, he could 
have been forgiven for believing them to be 
identical. 

B. J. closed his book, looked hard at the young 
man, and said in a hesitating but friendly voice: 

“Excuse me, but I believe you were in the 27th 
Division. Your face is familiar to me—er—isn’t 
your name—er-?” 

The young man gave him a quick, comprehensive 
glance that came to rest on B. J.’s tie, and said: 

“Chester is my name. I was in the 27th Division 
for a short while. I—I—I’m afraid I don’t re¬ 
member you.” He was still looking at B. J.’s tie. 
B. J., on the other hand, was assimilating the dis¬ 
covery that the atlas in front of Mr. Chester was 
open at that portion of the North Sea which in¬ 
cludes Terschelling Island. There was therefore a 
short pause, and B. J. said quickly, but slightly in¬ 
accurately : 

“I’m James. I wonder where we met.” And 
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his eyes strayed downward again toward the atlas, 
and he edged a little nearer it. A small circle in 
pencil adorned a corner of the outer fringe of the 
Terschelling Sands. So Mr. Chester was also in 
the game! B. J. thereupon flung himself heart and 
soul into the task of becoming the young man’s 
bosom friend, and to his relief found it uncommonly 
easy by reason of his own friendly spirit and the 
other’s lack of something urgent to do. 

They left the library together, bent upon dis¬ 
covering the best lunch that London could give 
them. They fortified themselves against the rig¬ 
ours of the search with a whisky and soda apiece 
before leaving the Junior Parthenon. On the steps 
Chester asked the companion Providence had sent 
to relieve his boredom for the name of the man who 
made his ties. It is a thing which only the most 
tried and trusted friends ask of each other. 

B. J. told him, and remembered that he had not 
yet opened an account with the cheque for thirty- 
seven thousand pounds his father had given him the 
night before. The thought that the money had 
come from illicit, dishonest sources worried him, 
and he wondered what ought to be done about it. 
Logically it ought to go back to the Soviet coffers, 
but as a right-minded Conservative it was his obvi¬ 
ous duty to see that it did not. He decided to put it 
safely in a bank and think about it. In the mean¬ 
time he could afford to lunch and wine the brother 
of Jacqueline with proper luxury. The interest on 

[130] 


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the thirty-seven thousand pounds would permit 
that, even if he did not touch the actual sum. 

And so they went to the Savoy, and there laid 
solid foundations to a friendship that showed strong 
signs of lasting a lifetime. This was at fifteen min¬ 
utes to one. 


II 

At approximately fourteen minutes to one Sir 
George Marsh, nineteenth baronet, finished his 
breakfast in the deserted morning-room of the house 
in Carlton House Terrace and began going through 
his correspondence. The reason for the lateness 
of his meal was the earliness of the morning hour 
at which he had gone to bed after the council con¬ 
cerning the Krein-Sutton papers, and it was his 
determined principle to sleep ten hours every night 
even if it meant including some of the next day. 
Also he never opened a letter before he had finished 
his breakfast. He maintained that all unpleasant 
shocks to the nervous system should be met by the 
best physical resistance obtainable. 

But when he picked up Black Peter’s postcard 
and read it he realized that the breakfast he had 
eaten was insufficient to meet the strain. He began 
as a finely poised diplomat, got to his feet, read the 
postcard again, walked shakily across the room to 
an armchair, and ended in it a badly frightened 
man. He knew his late partner, and his late part- 

[131] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

ner had expressed the intention of killing him in a 
few but pregnant words. Unless he was uncom¬ 
monly careful his late partner would do so. 

Presently he pulled himself together, tore the 
postcard into a great many minute pieces, and threw 
them in the fire. As he did so he realized that Fitz- 
simons and the rest of the household staff had read 
it before he had, and he swore. Jacqueline might 
hear of it, and she would laugh. The thought of it 
caused him to grind his teeth. She was still too 
damned elusive, and an opportunity to laugh at him 
would not bring her any nearer. 

And he had got to keep well away from Black 
Peter. The devil was still at large, and dangerous 
to a degree he did not care to contemplate. 

Then he was struck by a happy thought, and hur¬ 
ried out of the room in search of his chief. 

Ill 

B. J. left his new friend, who was also the 
brother of Jacqueline and an inexhaustible source of 
reminiscence and general information on that sub¬ 
ject, at three o’clock, and returned to the Piccadilly 
Hotel to find Albert de Vere reading Le Sourire in 
the lounge. He seemed to be sitting like a desert 
in the midst of an oasis. The other occupants of 
the lounge seemed disinclined to be seen in his im¬ 
mediate neighbourhood, and B. J. decided that it 
must be his valet’s taste in light literature. 

[132] 


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He listened to that astute man’s recital of his 
morning’s operations with but half an ear, for he 
had come from a far more intimate glimpse of the 
girl he loved. Albert de Vere, apparently, had 
been to most of the big shops in the course of the 
morning. 

“Fust we went to Reville’s,” he said. “An’ they 
wouldn’t let me in, Gawd knows why not—I look 
orl right, don’t I?” he added in an aggrieved voice. 

B. J. did not feel up to an explanation of the sub¬ 
tleties of class distinctions, and let Albert proceed. 

“Then she took me a long chase into Kensington 
by taxi, an’ then to Brompton Road. ’Arrods’, 
and so on. She seemed to buy the ’ole bloomin’ 
place wherever she went. After that she ’ad a cup 
o’ ’Orlick’s Malted Milk in the resteront, and came 
back to Burberry’s in the ’Aymarket. She bought 
a pair o’ sea-boots, an’-” 

“What!” shouted B. J., and gripped Albert de 
Vere by the arm. 

“Yus. Sea-boots. Rubber ones,” said Albert. 
“She paid three pun ten for ’em.” 

B. J. sat very still for a moment, while to the side 
of this little fact that she had bought a pair of sea- 
boots sprang another small thing—the pencil mark 
on the map of the North Sea in the atlas of the 
Junior Parthenon library. Chester had put it there 
after interviewing his sister. She was going to 
that point off the Terschelling Sands to intercept 
the Soviet gun-runners! 

[133] 



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With a bound that upset a chair and startled 
Albert de Vere into a sudden “Strike me!” B. J. 
sprang for the telephone booths. He had Chester’s 
address in Jermyn Street, and with average luck he 
would be in. The fact that he had not mentioned 
his sister’s expedition did not mean that he would 
not. And B. J. was determined that he should. 
What had his father said about the ship from Arch¬ 
angel? Something about quick-firers and a four- 
point-nine. 


[134] 


CHAPTER VII 


At the moment when B. J. burst like a shell into 
Mr. Chester’s rather luscious flat in Jermyn Street 
Jacqueline was superintending the last details of 
her packing in her room in Carlton House Terrace. 
Felice had put in the new sea-boots with a further 
show of the unvoiced resentment which the depar¬ 
ture of her mistress had stimulated in her. She 
did not approve of the plan that permitted her 
young lady to enter such a hazardous adventure, 
but she did not actually reach the point of saying so. 
Gifted with the strong intuitions of her race, and by 
experience well aware that her mistress’s deter¬ 
mined, slightly detached expression meant that she 
was going through with something, she knew bet¬ 
ter than to criticize. 

Jacqueline, on the other hand, was experiencing 
all the thrills of one who, having for years dreamt, 
prayed, plotted, and schemed for something, at last 
reaches the point where that something becomes a 
tangible reality. 

She had sought adventure, and now she was to 
place her feet on its paths, and she was calling all 
her wits to the task of exploring them successfully. 
She took the long automatic from its drawer in the 
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dressing-table and put it in her hand-bag. Felice 
shivered. 

Although Jacqueline did not stop to analyse it, 
one of the chief reasons for her belief that circum¬ 
stances and her own scheming had enabled her to 
take an active part in the suppression of the Krein- 
Sutton Communist plot was that it would take her 
away from George. George was becoming tire¬ 
some. He was proving the old adage, “Give him 
an inch and he’ll take an ell,” to the point where he 
was taking a mile—several miles. The night be¬ 
fore, or more particularly the early hours of the 
morning, had shown her that, for at the end of the 
conference, when they went to their rooms, tired but 
satisfied with the result of their difficult work, he 
had accompanied her to her door and there kissed 
her forcibly and unexpectedly. 

And it had annoyed her, for the first thrill of his 
kisses had gone, leaving only a distaste and distrust 
of them that defied any effort she made to analyse 
the reason. And the queer thing about it had been 
that when his lips were on hers she had had an ex¬ 
traordinarily clear vision of the Chinese river-pirate. 
It had taken her back to the mistake they had made 
about him in thinking that he was Peter Sutton. 
The unmistakable sense of relief when she found 
that he was not had not been dimmed by the curious 
manner of his exit. She attributed his desire to re¬ 
main unknown to something which concerned her¬ 
self, and, woman-like, was intrigued and in no way 

[136] 


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angry with him for it. His “One day I shall make 
love to you” still rang in her ears. 

In the meantime she was angry with George, and 
wished that he did not exercise such an undesirable 
fascination over her, for it made it so much more 
difficult to remain even-minded and clear-headed in 
dealing with him. When she was with him she 
liked him a lot more than she did when she was 
away from him. And she did not want to like him. 

When her uncle sent up a message to the effect 
that there had been a change in the original plan, 
and would she come down to his study, she more 
than half expected what the change would be. She 
found George with her uncle and saw at once, by 
the quality of his permanent smile, that he was well 
satisfied with something. 

“George is going with you,” said her uncle at 
once. “The Admiralty think that they can do the 
work just as well with an armed yacht as with a 
small cruiser, and George has offered them the 
charter of the Wise Bird and his own services as 
skipper. Keyser—you know, Admiral Keyser—has 
just been on the telephone and he thinks it an ex¬ 
cellent idea. He does not suppose for a minute that 
there will be any fuss with the Russians, but in 
case of one he has ordered a twelve-pounder to be 
mounted on the Wise Bird at once. • She’s lying at 
Southampton. You and George can go down at 
once —that is, if you are still intent upon running 
your head into unnecessary danger.” 

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Jacqueline thought quickly. It was a change 
she did not contemplate with any easiness of mind, 
and the original plan of using a small third-class 
destroyer-cruiser had seemed good enough. And, 
further, it had not included George. 

“I did not know you wanted to come,” she said 
to the smiling baronet. 

“I did not like the idea of your going alone,” he 
said, with an unmistakable air of proprietorship 
that set Jacqueline’s teeth on edge. “It will be 
quite in order; Mrs. Davis, the mate’s wife, is com¬ 
ing with us. We will look after you.” 

“There would have been Captain Trefus and 
about three junior officers, to say nothing of the 
crew, to look after me,” she said tartly. “Besides, 
I don’t want looking after.” 

“They could hardly be expected to feel the true 
responsibility of their charge of you,” said George 
sententiously. 

“Rot!” said Jacqueline, and then added: “All 
right. When do we start?” 

“Three-fifteen from Waterloo,” said Lord 
Frampton, who had been watching his niece’s ap¬ 
parent disinclination to have his excellent secretary 
along with her with displeased eyes. Marsh was a 
very good man at his job, and the ready manner in 
which he had volunteered to go with her had shown 
a nice spirit. She ought to appreciate it. He saw 
the door close on her before remarking with the 
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pungent air that had won him such staunch following 
in the House: 

“Will there ever be a man born of woman who 
can understand woman?” 

“One never knows,” said the nineteenth baronet, 
with an even greater cheerfulness. He was not 
only going to place himself at a safe distance from 
Black Peter and that ruffian’s desire to kill him, but 
also place Jacqueline Chester in a position suffi¬ 
ciently isolated to render her aware of the urgency 
of his advances. 

Further, he felt in his secret heart that if there 
had ever been and never would be a man born of 
woman who understood woman he at least ap¬ 
proached not far from that ideal. 

And so at three-fifteen the two of them—Jacque¬ 
line subdued, the nineteenth baronet brightly conver¬ 
sational—caught the train for Southampton, and be¬ 
fore dark were aboard the Wise Bird. 

II 

John Chester, brother of Jacqueline, was wonder¬ 
ing in his neat and pigeonholed mind whether he 
would visit his hairdresser, or trail into the end of 
the matinee at the Prince of Wales’ and see if he 
was still in love with the eighth lady from the left, 
when his new friend, from whom he had parted 
a few minutes before on such excellent terms, came 
[ 1 39] 


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upon him, radiating an agitation and excitement that 
filled the large if exotic confines of the young man’s 
sitting-room. 

“Look here,” B. J. began, without the vaguest at¬ 
tempt at preamble. “Is your sister going to the 
North Sea? She’s bought a pair of sea-boots, and 
if she is she’s going to run herself into no end of 
a mess. Much worse than they think it is. For 
God’s sake, tell me! If she is we’ve got to stop 
her. You’ve got to stop her! Anybody—it doesn’t 
matter, as long as she doesn’t go!” 

“My dear chap!” said Chester. “What in the 
world’s bitten you?” 

“I—I—well, there’s not time to go into the de¬ 
tails of it. The main point is that she’s got to be 
stopped. I happen to know something about the 
thing she’s dealing with. The other side, you know, 
and it’s a good bit more dangerous than the au¬ 
thorities realize. If they did they’d never dream 
of letting her anywhere near the scene of action. 
I—er—I’m rather fond of her.” 

“Congratulations,” said Chester heartily, but 
with a slightly cautious air. “I didn’t know you 
knew her. You didn’t tell me.” 

“I don’t. That is, I do. Damn it! Is she 
going?” 

The young man thought for a moment, because 
it was his pride to be non-commital. Beyond that 
there was no reason for his delay in answering. To 
B. J., however, it seemed that the one factor in the 

[140] 


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situation was about to fail him. Chester would ask 
questions; he would discover that he was the son of 
the chief villain, and instantly the fat would be in 
the fire. He could see him turning it all over in his 
mind. Then to his unutterable relief the young 
man turned to him and said: 

“Yes. She’s going to the North Sea. I don’t 
think, though, that I can give you the details. It 
seems to be one of these State secrets that she is 
always muddled up with. From the way she talked 
it was going to be no picnic—but then she’s always 
looking for trouble—hoping for it.” 

“She’ll get it in this,” said B. J. “Chester, it’s 
honestly far worse than she thinks. I know a few 
of the details. What time does she start?” 

“I’m not sure. Some time to-day. I’ll ring up.” 
And the young man stretched out a hand for the 
instrument, which was attached to a long, expanding 
arm so that he could hold his various conversations 
without moving from his chair. B. J. decided, in 
spite of the tumult of his emotions, that it was 
typical of him. It seemed an age before he got the 
number. At last he did, and spoke a little lazily 
for all that he was more interested and intrigued 
than he had been in anything for months. 

“Fitzsimons? Oh! Can I speak to Miss Jac¬ 
queline? Mr. Chester speaking. What? Three- 
fifteen?” He listened a moment, and then put back 
the receiver and glanced at the wrist-watch under 
the cuff of a Hawes and Curtis shirt. 

[i4i] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“Three-twenty-five. She is in the Southampton 
train now. She’s gone down with Marsh—Sir 
George Marsh—Uncle Arthur’s secretary, you 
know.” 

“Yes,” said B. J. “I know.” He was thinking 
furiously, with the main theme of: “She’s got to 
be stopped! She’s got to be stopped!” But how 
was she to be stopped? Chester asked him the 
question, and added: 

“We might ask Uncle Arthur to make an effort, 
but I doubt if he could do anything. Jacqueline has 
decided to have her adventure, and when she decides 
she decides. I don’t know quite where Marsh comes 
in, though. It must be some new arrangement.” 

“Yes,” said B. J., and thought of his father’s post¬ 
card as a probable reason for the sudden desire for 
a journey on the part of the nineteenth baronet. 
But he did not say so. The matter of deciding what 
to do was all-absorbing, and left neither room nor 
inclination in his mind for any other subject. 

“She’s got to be stopped,” he said again. 

Chester looked at him carefully. 

“I believe you love her,” he said, then added, 
“By Jove ! How perfectly ripping!” 

“What?” 

“Why, you and Jacqueline; you’d fit.” 

“We won’t fit, or get a chance of fitting, if she’s 
not stopped before she gets to Terschelling.” 

“The Crown of Terschelling. Yes.” 

“What do you mean, ‘the Crown’? Do you 
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know the exact point ?” said B. J., and mastered 
the desire to drag the other to his feet. He knew 
that he had got what he wanted. Of course Ches¬ 
ter knew the exact spot—why should he draw a lit¬ 
tle circle on the map of the North Sea with a pencil 
if he didn’t? But if he had been asked directly for 
it, if he had not been sympathetic, he would never 
have given it. B. J. watched the young man take a 
little indexed notebook from his waistcoat pocket. 
He turned to B. J. and said: 

“You’ll find her somewhere near latitude 53 0 
30', longitude 5 0 30', about the afternoon of the 
5th.” 

“Thanks,” said B. J., and seized his hat. 

III 

For a while Chester sat where he was, analysing, 
after his usual custom, a new state of mind. Pres¬ 
ently he came to some conclusion, and after array¬ 
ing himself with extreme care in a new lounge suit 
went to the Prince of Wales’ to see if he still felt the 
same about the eighth lady from the left. He 
found that he did, and decided that his odd inter¬ 
view with his new friend had in some way stimulated 
a flagging passion. He felt uncommonly grateful 
to him. 

IV 

B. J. left the Piccadilly Hotel in a taxi at exactly 
four o’clock. All the way to King’s Cross Albert 
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de Vere poured into his ears what knowledge he pos¬ 
sessed of the North Sea and the manners and cus¬ 
toms of those who wandered about its waters. To 
his mind Grimsby was the door to the North Sea, 
and one Accrington held the key of it. Accrington, 
it appeared, had been a friend of his youth, and had 
migrated to Grimsby in 1910. 

“We ’ad a drink in the Royal ’Otel, one Saturday 
night,” said Albert, “when we was passin’ through 
Grimsby on some sort o’ bizness—’orses, I think it 
was—and Arfer-” 

“Arfer?” asked B. J. 

“Yus. Arfer Accrington.” 

“Oh, Arthur." 

“Yus, Arfer.” 

“Go on.” 

“Well, Arfer had been a bit queer orl day, and 
suddenly ’e says: ‘Halbert, Pm goin’ to stop ’ere,’ 
‘Why?’ I arsks him. ‘I like the smell,’ he says, ‘o’ 
this ’ere bar. It sort o’ ’tracts me, an’ I feel more 
at ’ome ’ere than hanywhere helse I’ve hever bin.’ 
And with that we ’as another drink and shakes 
’ands, and I goes on to London.” 

“I see,” said B. J., who was beginning to feel all 
the relief of one who at last is able to throw aside 
the cloak of caution and concealment and wave the 
sword of action. “And you think Arthur will be 
in Grimsby still? It’s twelve—thirteen years 
ago.” 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 


“ ’E will,” said Albert with conviction. “I 
knows me Arfer.” 

B. J. had to be content with that. The five 
hours’ journey to Grimsby Docks brought a certain 
return of his former impatience, but it was tem¬ 
pered by a resolute desire to see the thing through. 
He tried in a rather inconclusive and futile man¬ 
ner to discover which was his chief motive: to save 
the girl from the consequences of her rash act, or to 
be near her and attempt to establish himself in her 
eyes as an innocent victim of circumstances—to 
show her that because a chap had a scoundrelly fa¬ 
ther he, as the son, was not necessarily as black a 
ruffian. 

After that he tried to work out, with the aid of 
a small map, how long it would take them to get 
to the Crown of Terschelling if the average speed 
of the boat they chartered was twelve knots. Once 
they sailed it would not take long, but it depended 
entirely on the expeditious manner in which that sail¬ 
ing took place. If they could get away by morning 
they would be at the meeting-place well ahead of 
time, and probably before the girl, since she would 
lose time by leaving from Southampton. That she 
should have gone to Southampton was a thing that 
puzzled him, if Albert was right in saying that 
Grimsby was the most convenient starting-point. 
He wondered, too, what kind of craft the Admiralty 
was using and if it would be possible to convince the 

[145] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

people on board it of his bona fides when he found 
it. It would be difficult, since the girl was so con¬ 
vinced that he was one of the scoundrels she was 
outwitting. 

B. J.’s impressions of Grimsby, even to this day, 
are vague. It was nine o’clock in the evening when 
they reached the harbour, and it was one of those 
pitch-black nights with rain hanging close over earth 
and sea. He followed Albert de Vere from the sta¬ 
tion across to the Royal Hotel, wondering if he was 
in any appreciable way nearer his object. In his 
mood it seemed a wild hope of Albert’s that he 
should find a man he had not seen or heard of for 
twelve years. Also the North Sea began to as¬ 
sume a size out of all proportion to that which he 
had expected it to be from his knowledge gained in 
the geography books. He caught glimpses of it, 
and a far-distant light at the harbour entrance 
winked at him across an expanse of dirty-coloured 
water in a sinister fashion. 

The bar of the Royal Hotel was full. It always 
is full, but in the evening, when the heavy business 
of the day is at an end, it is fuller than at any 
other time. Albert de Vere piloted his master 
through the smoky room to the counter, and there 
inquired for Mr. “Arfer” Accrington. The bar¬ 
maid nodded toward a man who leant six feet of 
lanky body comfortably against the wall, and said: 

“There’s t’ la-ad.” 

The next moment Albert de Vere and “Arfer” 
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were thumping each other on the back, and Albert, 
in between thumps, was introducing B. J. to this im¬ 
mensely tall individual. 

“I thought as ’ow I’d find you ’ere,” Albert said, 
and the other nodded complacently. 

“I aint’ bin anywhere much else—’xcept when 
I’m a-sea.” 

u Ah!” said Albert. “A-sea. That’s where we 
want to be—and quick too!” 

“Arfer” considered them both for a moment. 

“What’ve you done?” 

“Nuffink,” said Albert. “But some one else ’as. 
We wants to be at the Crown o’ Terschelling by 
Saturday dawn. Can you get us there? Can you 
put us in the way o’ a boat that’ll do it, and not 
too many questions afore we’re off? We ain’t no 
time to talk—not this trip. It’s no Southend 
excursion.” 

“Ho,” said “Arfer.” “I see.” 

A shade of interest began to shadow his placid 
face. It was a round face, plump for such a thin 
man, and oddly devoid of expression when he spoke. 
B. J. wondered however such a queerly assorted 
pair as Albert de Vere, small, sharp-faced, and alert, 
and this weedy man with his fat face could find any¬ 
thing in common. Later the mystery was to a cer¬ 
tain degree made clear. They had very little in 
common—but we are still in Grimsby. 

The calmness with which “Arfer” revolved the 
matter in the mind behind his smooth, round 
[ 147 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

forehead aroused all B. J.’s impatience again, and 
when the tall man ordered a large tankard of beer 
with which to help his mental processes he must 
have shown the feelings he had, for Albert said 
soothingly: 

“ ’E always was that way, sir, when Vs got an 
idea in ’is ’ead. Leave ’im be a bit.” 

Suddenly “Arfer” awoke. 

“It’ll cost you fifty pun a day,” he said. 

“All right,” said B. J. “But I’m in a hurry. 
Can we get off by the morning?” 

“Arfer” retired once more into his shell, and af¬ 
ter what seemed an age said: 

“We can. The Old Dog's due in at eight in the 
mornin’. She’ll be discharged by eleven. We-” 

“Discharged?” 

“Arfer” eyed B. J. coldly. 

“Yes. Discharge her fish. She’s a trawler.” 

“Can’t we take the fish out with us and dump 
it?” 

“You can—if you like to buy it.” 

“I’ll buy it, but for heaven’s sake realize we’re 
in a hurry—a damned hurry,” said B. J. 

“Arfer” nodded. 

“That’s all right. Meet me outside o’ this bar 
at half-past seven. Have you got oils—oilskins?” 
“No.” 

“Well, ye’ll need ’em. Maybe I can find some 
for ye. Good-night.” And he lounged out of the 
bar. 


[i 4 8] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 


B. J. was relieved. For all “Arfer’s” careless 
manner of dealing with the situation and his even 
more careless method of reaching the street—he 
might have been going to borrow twopence from the 
man next door—there was something about him 
that conveyed confidence. 

They slept that night under the hospitable roof of 
the Royal Hotel, and at seven-thirty next morning 
were collected, along with their impedimenta, by 
the placid-faced “Arfer.” In the half-light of the 
November morning and the wet mist that hung over 
the “Pontoon,” as they call the long sweep of quay, 
the three figures were indeed mysterious, suggest¬ 
ing plainly the dim machinations of the goddess Ad¬ 
venture, who loves nothing better than early dawns 
for the beginnings of her plots. 

B. J. had learnt one useful thing from the pro¬ 
prietor of the Royal when he paid his bill, and of 
which he had taken advantage. That was the love 
of the Grimsby deep-water men for sugar cakes, 
and he had had the local confectioner out of his bed 
in order to lay in a supply. He knew that he might 
have to call upon the crew of the Old Dog to be¬ 
have in quite an unorthodox manner, and realized 
that when that time came the response would de¬ 
pend upon the little things. He knew, too, from 
“Arfer’s” attitude toward him that because he was 
a landsman he lacked something—and so along with 
his intention of giving his friendly spirit full play he 
invested in the sugar cakes. 

[149] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

They were a sound investment, and it is quite 
likely that if it had not been for them things might 
have gone differently—they paid full dividends 
when the battle of the Crown was fought. 


[IS®] 


CHAPTER VIII 


We can leave B. J. on the quayside waiting for 
the Old Dog to take him aboard, and return to 
Jacqueline, who at almost the same time—about 
eight o’clock—was breakfasting in the saloon of the 
Wise Bird with Sir George Marsh. He was ex¬ 
plaining to her with some pains that it was the 
earliest breakfast he had eaten for ten years, and 
that oddly enough he was not regretting it, for she 
was excessively beautiful and brightened the dreary 
grey of the winter morning. 

Jacqueline listened with little attention, less, in¬ 
deed, than she showed, and at the same time gave 
all her ears to the sounds outside, which told her the 
voyage was beginning. Her appearance of in¬ 
terest in the love-sick heart of George was due to 
an overnight decision that it would be wiser and in¬ 
finitely more comfortable to humour him. George 
was never so amiable and pleasant as when he was 
getting his own way, and to let him think that he 
was doing so now seemed a harmless enough policy 
since it kept him from the more ardent expression 
of his undying passion. The only thing she would 
have to avoid during the next few days would be 
[I5i] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

tete-a-tetes, and in view of the fact that by the af¬ 
ternoon of the next day they would be deep in the 
adventure, and their attention fully occupied by it, 
it ought not to be difficult. 

It was, however. 

The first thing she noticed was the almost marked 
manner in which the two officers and the rest of the 
crew avoided her whenever George was in her vi¬ 
cinity, while George, considering the fact that he 
was supposed to be skippering the Wise Bird, took 
the yacht’s name as sufficient reason to leave it to 
its own devices, or rather those of the mate, Frank 
Davis. Jacqueline, therefore, spent much of her 
time in her cabin, until she lost patience with the 
situation and decided that since it was her adven¬ 
ture, George or no George, she ought to take an ac¬ 
tive interest in it. 

She came out into the open and proceeded to 
make friends with Frank Davis, to the discomfort of 
that gentleman. He found himself giving her les¬ 
sons in navigation, and endeavouring to appease 
her desire for information about the sea and the 
ships on it. His discomfort was rather that of the 
small boy who was being fed on forbidden toffee. 
He enjoyed the toffee, but it was an enjoyment tem¬ 
pered by anxiety as to what his master would say 
about it. 

At eleven o’clock George decided to captain the 
ship, and Jacqueline, lest her desire to avoid him 
should be too apparent, stayed with him on the 

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bridge. She realized in the course of the morning 
a little more of the power she had stirred up in the 
nineteenth baronet. She saw that the increas¬ 
ing distance between them and civilization had the 
effect of bringing to the surface much in his na¬ 
ture that he had hitherto been at pains to keep 
concealed. 

He began to discourse fluently upon himself and 
his ambitions; which last included her. 

“I am a man,” he told her, “who has never yet 
failed to obtain what he wants. One day I will tell 
you how I have arranged my life. As long as I 
can remember I have had one dominant idea to 
which all my thoughts, all my dreams, have led. 
Everything I have done has been governed by it, 
and now I am at the point where ten years of solid 
work are about to bear fruit.” 

“How nice,” said Jacqueline, and it seemed to 
pull him up in his stride. The eternal smile left his 
face for a moment. 

“I wonder if you know exactly what you are deal¬ 
ing with?” he said. 

“I think I do,” she said. 

He watched her in silence, and although she had 
her face turned seaward from him and seemed to 
be contemplating the grey of the horizon she noticed 
something in his attitude that was more frightening 
than anything she had come across in her life. In¬ 
stinctively she pulled the wide collar of her coat 
closer about her face, and a little feverishly began 
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talking about the adventure in front of them, but 
she met with no response from him except for a few 
monosyllables which showed her more clearly what 
she already suspected—that the subject held little 
interest for him. This only served to worry her 
more; she knew that George was not a man to come 
to the North Sea for fun or as a method of passing 
the time. She went below to her cabin to get ready 
for lunch with a strong sense of leaving something 
unpleasant behind her, and sat on the edge of her 
bunk for several minutes trying to gather up her 
self-assurance. It took her longer than she cared 
to admit. 

For perhaps the first time in her life she was alive 
to a danger with which she doubted her ability to 
cope. She saw with a sense of shock the isolation 
of her position and her own sheer physical weakness 
in the face of the odds against her. The officers 
and crew of the Wise Bird were under his thumb, 
and the only man on board who was likely to be of 
the slightest help to her was the gunner who had 
been installed along with the twelve-pounder by 
the Southampton authorities. And it seemed at 
present to be a poor comfort. She would have to 
get in touch with him. Mrs. Davis, the mate’s 
wife, was no more than a stewardess. 

At lunch George was taciturn to a point that 
showed her how confident he was. He seemed to 
have made up his mind that things were in his hands, 
[ 154 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


and she could see that below the surface he was 
gloating. It would have been more bearable if he 
had shown it a little; the hidden and the unknown 
is always more terrifying than the obvious and 
unconcealed. 

That night she went on deck before turning in 
in the hope that the keen air and the impression of 
space would lift the oppression that weighed her 
down. The closeness of her small cabin seemed 
like a prison from which there was no hope of es¬ 
cape, emphasizing the whole situation. 

George was on the bridge, and when he saw her 
he came down from it and walked up and down the 
deck by her side. His mood had changed again, 
and he talked lightly of people they both knew in 
an impersonal manner which was quite as alarming 
as his silence. Also he made no effort, and showed 
no inclination, to kiss her, and she saw in it an in¬ 
dication that he was withholding his hand. In 
some ways, perhaps, it was a relief, but in others it 
was not, and she lay awake—a thing she had never 
done before—worrying about it. She took the 
automatic from her hand-bag and slipped it under 
her pillow, and for all that she laughed at what she 
called an attack of nerves she left the automatic 
where it was, and the feel of it through her pillow 
under her cheek gave her a certain comfort. Also 
the morrow would bring them to the meeting-place 
—and anything might happen. 

[155] 


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II 

The moment B. J. felt the unstable deck of the 
Old Dog under his feet whatever despondency and 
anxiety there was left in him went, and he entered 
the next chapter of the adventure with a light heart. 
He found that the captain of the Old Dog was a 
lovable soul of forty odd, who wore red carpet 
slippers, and was known to his crew as “Tom.” 
He eyed B. J. suspiciously at first, but later decided 
to accept him, and they conferred together in the 
miniature chart-house. B. J. told him the whole 
story, for he saw that he‘had to deal with a man 
who placed honesty and open-handedness before 
every other virtue. Probably, indeed, he recog¬ 
nized no others. At all events he commented on it 
non-committally: 

“I don’t know what the rights and the wrongs 
of the business is, Mr. Sutton, but I see your point. 
We’ll do what we can to warn the Admiralty boat 
before she gets to the Crown. As I see it we ought 
to pick her up somewhere about here.” He took a 
chart from the rafters above his head, and spread¬ 
ing it out on his knees pointed with a stubby finger. 
“That is, of course, if we don’t run into a mist.” 

“Is a mist likely?” asked B. J. 

“Anything is likely off Terschelling. It’s a mat¬ 
ter o’ luck.” 

And after that B. J. realized that there was noth¬ 
ing to be done but acquire patience, and he set about 
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distributing the sugar cakes among the crew. He 
presented the most sugary to Tom, who in an ex¬ 
cess of gratitude lent B. J. Every Man his Own 
Doctor, which was apparently his most priceless 
possession. It was thumbed from cover to cover. 

The only incident during the next fifteen hours 
that attracted anybody’s interest and attention was 
Albert de Vere’s effort to teach the small youth— 
he could not have been more than twelve—who was 
the ship’s cook how to make an omelette. Albert 
had apparently noticed during his brief association 
with B. J. that his master had a passion for ome¬ 
lettes, and as a zealous gentleman’s gentleman saw 
fit to see that his gentleman should have his passion 
gratified. 

It disturbed the serenity of the life aboard the 
Old Dog to a considerable extent, and culminated 
in an honest endeavour on the part of the youthful 
cook to carve Albert de Vere with his largest 
carving-knife. As Albert put it afterward: 

“ ’Ow did I know the young whelp was so touchy 
about ’is bloomin’ cookin’ ? The young devil! ’E 
ain’t more’n four foot ’igh.” 

“But if he didn’t want you in his galley you 
shouldn’t have gone in it,” said B. J. 

Then Albert told him about his desire that he 
should have omelettes, and B. J. had to thank him, 
and explain that he could manage without them for 
a day or so, but at the same time advised him to 
keep clear of the small youth. 

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“I’ll keep clear of ’im,” said Albert, “but I don’t 
promise nuffink. I ain’t a-goin’ to be treated that 
way by a kid like ’im. I don’t think ’e knows who 
I am. Why-” 

And he broke forth into a dissertation on his own 
terrible character. At this point the third adven¬ 
turer, Albert de Vere’s lanky but boyhood friend, 
took him away and quietened him in some corner. 
Apparently he treated him like an arrant schoolboy, 
for Albert could be heard at intervals asserting that 
he wasn’t “goin’ to be talked to by no blarsted lamp- 
post.” 

It was the first time, but not the last, that B. J. 
discovered the independent spirit of Albert de Vere, 
and it set him thinking about the extraordinary char¬ 
acter of the little Cockney. The queer mixture in 
him of virtue and vice; his loyalty, and by the side 
of it an obvious willingness to sell any man’s soul 
for gold if the need arose; his honesty with B. J.— 
he could have stolen anything from his master’s per¬ 
sonal belongings had he wished—and then his adept 
pickpocketing—all of it hidden away in a diminutive 
body and expressed in the small, sharp-featured face 
and narrow, bright eyes. Albert de Vere was a 
problem which the swift, soul-stirring events of the 
last few days had effectively kept in the background 
of B. J.’s mind, and now that the enforced leisure 
of the hours gave him the opportunity he consid¬ 
ered it. 

That night B. J. sat with the crew in the main 
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cabin round the triangular table through which the 
heavy butt of the mast sprouted to the ceiling. 
They were a race of men whose existence he had 
never suspected, never heard about, yet which im¬ 
pressed him enormously—the deep-sea fishermen of 
the North Sea. They were small men; Nordic, and 
amazingly virile. 

He gathered from their conversation that they 
regarded this trip as a pleasure jaunt, and saw in it 
an excellent opportunity for sleep, and after each 
meal, to which they came grumbling, they retired 
again to their bunks. He gathered that they were 
kinder to him than they usually were to a landsman, 
partly because he was responsible for the pleasant 
absence of work, but mainly because of the pleasant 
presence of sugar cakes. 

He discovered that the German submarines had 
been driven from the North Sea on sugar cakes. 

A dull, misty dawn was creeping across the world 
when they reached the point where they hoped to 
pick up the Admiralty boat. It was somewhere 
near longitude 5 0 30' and north of latitude 53 0 
30 '. B. J. spent the time until breakfast on the 
bridge with Tom, and was aware of something 
dynamic in the air. He said as much to the captain, 
who merely grunted and nodded toward the north. 

“The only thing we’re like to get near that’s likely 
to be exciting,” he said, “is that mist.” 

And B. J. perceived that the northern horizon 
seemed to be drawing closer to them. 

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“The best thing we can do,” Tom continued, “is 
to steam around and hope for the best. What do 
you want to do if we don’t find ’em?” 

“If they don’t turn up during the morning we’d 
better make for the Crown.” 

“And then what?” 

B. J. shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know. 
All he wanted was to be near Jacqueline when the 
trouble started, and they would have to leave the 
making of any scheme to the spur of the moment, 
and in accordance with the state of affairs in which 
they found themselves. 

“We’ll give them until noon. But if this mist 
lasts can you find the Crown?” 

“As near as may be,” said Tom, in a tone that 
conveyed that as a dweller in Piccadilly Circus he 
might find the winged Eros in its centre. 

As the culmination of things approached B. J. 
began to realize even more fully the .meaning of 
the sudden volcanic eruption in the quiet meadow of 
his life. He saw that things like this did not hap¬ 
pen to a man unless they bore some deep signifi¬ 
cance, and while up to the moment he had been obey¬ 
ing impulses and instincts with little consideration 
for reason and logic he now felt that he had a firmer 
grip on circumstances, and experienced the sensa¬ 
tion—by far the pleasantest he had ever had—of 
being able to order circumstances to a certain extent. 
He had become fatalistic in his attitude toward the 
girl. He saw in it all a deliberate move on the part 
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of Providence to give him something which uncon¬ 
sciously he had desired most of his short life. 
Jacqueline Chester was that something, and in spite 
of her hatred of him, in spite of the uncertainty and 
anxiety of the moment, he knew with a queer cer¬ 
tainty that ultimately he would find her and make 
her love him. 

The promise he had made her at the Carlton 
House Terrace ball, “One day I am going to make 
love to you,” he knew to be the most far-reaching 
and significant promise he had ever made in his life. 
At the time he had not understood it fully, but now 
it had its true value in his mind. 

Meanwhile the sense of impending action had 
taken possession of every soul on board the Old 
Dog. The fishermen left their bunks and appeared 
about the decks, leant over the rail, and generally 
wore the air of expectant and interested spectators. 
They had already been given by Tom an outline of 
the story that B. J. had told him, and they had de¬ 
cided more or less accurately that it was an unoffi¬ 
cial attempt to check a Bolshie game, and since they 
had had to deal with Bolshevik propagandists in 
their own ranks they had acquired from them a deep 
distrust of anything that came out of Russia and 
were prepared to do what might be asked of them. 

They had their opportunity. 

At twelve o’clock there was no sign that any 
other ship existed within a hundred miles of them. 
The mist still hung over the sea in heavy, coiling 

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masses, and the whole ship was wet and dripping 
with moisture. The dull shriek of the siren, which 
reverberated incessantly, seemed to carry no dis¬ 
tance, and if there was any answer to it the blanket 
of fog effectively prevented them from hearing it. 

On the stroke of the twelve-o’clock bell the Old 
Dog picked up her heels and ran for the Crown 
with a certainty of direction which surprised B. J., 
for Tom, after one casual glance at the compass, 
took no more notice of it—he just held the wheel 
with one hand and swore occasionally because the 
damp threatened the pristine glory of his carpet 
slippers. If it had not been for his air of quiet 
assurance B. J. would have questioned the correct¬ 
ness of their course. Indeed, he went to the chart- 
house, and after working out what their exact di¬ 
rection should be returned and examined the com¬ 
pass. It did not tally within ten degrees, but he did 
not comment on the fact. Tom, however, must 
have felt the question in his passenger’s mind, for 
he jerked his thumb at the compass and remarked: 

“It was all right when my grandfather had it, but 
I don’t know that it’s much use now.” 

And B. J. began to wonder even more why the 
deep-sea fisherman had not yet received his due 
credit in the record of civilization. 

Then he began to wonder about his father. By 
this time he should have reached Ostend and be 
laying plans for the slaying of the nineteenth baro¬ 
net. From this he got to the question of the thirty- 
[162] 


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seven thousand pounds and what ought to be done 
with it. He wished he could be sure that all of it 
had come from the Soviet Government, and what 
exact right his father had to it. At all events it was 
a question to be shelved until the mess was either 
cleared up or became worse, but in the meantime 
it rested safely in the bank in his own name, and 
nobody could get at it. 

The thing that really worried him and which he 
had only just realized was the distressing fact that 
he did not possess any form of armament with which 
to cope with a physical emergency should it arise, 
and as he saw it this was an emergency that was 
not unlikely. He approached Tom, who consid¬ 
ered the matter gravely, and then took a small key 
from his pocket. 

“Go down to my cabin, and you’ll find a shooting- 
iron of sorts in the drawer of the cabin under the 
picture of Moses in the Bulrushes. You are wel¬ 
come to it if it is any use to you.” 

B. J. thanked him and went below. He found 
that “shooting-iron” was a good description of the 
young cannon he found in the drawer. Like the 
compass, it must have belonged to Tom’s grand¬ 
father. Its bore was all of half an inch, and its 
barrel a good twelve in length. It had five cham¬ 
bers, and in the drawer was a packet of cartridges. 
He loaded it with them, and swung the thing in his 
hand, and estimated that its kick would resemble a 
mule’s as nearly as possible. However, it was bet- 
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THE SUTTON PAPERS 

ter than nothing, and since he had done a good deal 
of revolver work during the war he would probably 
be able to do something with it. At least it would 
make a noise. He stuck it piratically in his belt 
and locked the drawer. 

He returned with the key to Tom, who eyed the 
revolver with a smile. 

“Aim well to the left with her and you’ll be all 
right,” he said. “Personally I don’t hold with that 
way of killing a man, but I guess it’s good enough 
for them Russians.” 

Thus we have the stage set and the characters 
and the plot ready for the grand climax. We have 
the hero, for all that he is a modern young man 
living in a modern age, armed and eager for the 
fray, ready to fight for his love and the life of his 
love with all the ardour of a knight of old. A few 
short hundred years ago he would now be at the 
castle gates of the enemy, sitting astride his horse 
with his sword unsheathed, wondering behind which 
barred window his princess languished. 

And the princess, although not languishing, is 
sitting in her cabin, wearing a dark grey flannel shirt 
and a very short grey flannel skirt, with a very 
serviceable pair of sea-boots on her feet, oiling and 
loading a very serviceable automatic pistol, but with 
her heart anxious because of something she does not 
fully comprehend, something which is hidden be¬ 
hind the smiling exterior of Sir George Marsh. 

[ 1 64] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


The throb of the engines of the Wise Bird had 
ceased, and she lay in the trough of a heavy, greasy 
swell waiting for the arrival of the Krein ship, the 
mist making her a white ghost in the grey. The 
crew moved about silently, and she seemed like a 
man in ambush, expectant, her twelve-pounder look¬ 
ing wickedly eastward. 

George walked impatiently up and down the 
bridge, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets and 
his mind busy with the problem that confronted him. 
He knew, as Peter Sutton and B. J. knew, that the 
gun-runners were better armed than was the Wise 
Bird, and if it had not been for a sudden failing of 
his courage he would have dealt with the situation 
as he had intended to deal with it. For he had 
among other things decided that the gun-runners 
should be allowed to run their guns as best they 
could without the usual trawlers to meet them, and 
that neither he nor the Wise Bird should interfere 
with them. 

It was true that he had made a great deal of 
money out of Krein and his “Liberty and Freedom” 
principles, but that was not his reason for letting 
them go free. It did not matter to him one way 
or the other. The only thing that he wanted to 
avoid was the delay and the accidents that a fight 
would involve. 

George had decided about five minutes after he 
received Black Peter’s postcard and its unpleasant 

[165] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

message that it was the time to get from under, and 
getting from under to his mind included his being 
accompanied by Jacqueline Chester. With an ease 
that had called forth his own admiration he had 
engineered the change of plan so that it put him 
and the girl aboard his own yacht and bound them 
for a destination in the middle of the North Sea on 
a project of extreme danger. It was exactly what 
he wanted. 

The rest of the scheme was quite as simple. 
The Wise Bird, Sir George Marsh, and Miss Jac¬ 
queline Chester were to disappear from the face 
of waters and the ken of men. At the same time 
a prearranged telegram would be dispatched to 
Lord Arthur Frampton in which he would be 
warned, too late, that Krein’s ship was fully armed. 
The two facts would lead to only one conclusion in 
the minds of the world—that the Wise Bird had 
been sunk with all hands by a superior enemy. 
George knew that Krein’s captain would return to 
Archangel when he found no trawlers to meet him, 
and they would not meet him because they had been 
arrested in their different ports before they set out 
for the meeting-place. 

George possessed, among other interesting things, 
a small but pleasantly situated island in the South 
Sea, and he dreamed of an idyllic existence on it on 
the fruits of his ten years’ solid work. 

It was all delightfully simple. The only flaw 
was Jacqueline, and George, to his own shame, was 
[ 166] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


finding the prospect of placing the scheme before 
her decidedly unpleasant. He scowled at the mist 
while his hand reached for the engine telegraph 
that would take them out of the danger zone. But 
he knew that the moment the engines started again 
the girl would be up on deck wanting to know what 
was happening. And quite frankly he did not know 
how he was going to tell her what was happening. 

There are times when a man, discovering a weak¬ 
ness of character in himself, will resort to methods 
of overcoming it which in the ordinary way would be 
completely foreign to his nature. The nineteenth 
baronet was a scoundrel, as bad a scoundrel as ever 
smiled blithely upon the drawing-rooms of the 
fashionable world—and from the fact that he had 
chosen the fashionable world as his hunting-ground 
one can assume that his weapons were always those 
of intrigue and subtlety—and now, either because 
he had left the drawing-rooms of the fashionable 
world or because he subconsciously realized in the 
girl something stronger than himself, he found him¬ 
self unable to use old weapons with any real 
hope of success. 

And so he dropped them, and picked up those of 
an ordinary pirate. He called Frank Davis from 
the poop and said quickly: 

“Miss Chester is in her cabin. Lock her in it, 
and bring the key to me. Have a bolt put on it 
and station a man outside.” 

Davis nodded, and began: 

[167] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“But-” 

George cut him short. 

“But nothing. Do as I tell you!” 

The nineteenth baronet was on edge, but had he 
not been he might have listened, and, listening, gath¬ 
ered a useful piece of information. And so Davis 
held his peace, and went below to do as he was told. 

George swung the telegraph. 


C 1 68] 



CHAPTER IX 


It was due to the mist that the Wise Bird had got 
past the Old Dog } and it was due to the mist that 
the Wise Bird had been sitting without knowing it 
within two hundred yards of a black steamer of 
some two thousands tons which held Krein’s gun¬ 
runners. 

During the time that George had been making up 
his mind about what he should do and how he 
should do it the mist had been thinning, with the re¬ 
sult that when he reached for the engine-room tele¬ 
graph, and, preparatory to pulling the lever over 
to full steam ahead, looked ahead of him, he re¬ 
alized that like himself the gun-runners were ahead 
of time, and, what was more, stood between him and 
the open sea. The sand-banks were behind him, 
nearer than he had supposed, and the risk of try¬ 
ing to run close to them was too great. He took 
his hand from the telegraph, and turned to Davis, 
who had just mounted the bridge with the key to 
Jacqueline’s cabin in his hand. 

“Look at that, Davis,” he said. 

The mate looked at it, and then he looked at the 
sands behind. 

“It’s going to be a bit of a problem to get past 
them,” he said. 

[169] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“Don’t I know it?” returned the other savagely. 
“Why the devil should they choose this particular 
time to turn up ahead of schedule? The trawlers 
were always complaining that they had to wait and 
lose valuable time.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

George began to walk up and down the bridge, 
and at intervals damned the mist, the sand-banks, 
and the Russians. Then he stopped. 

“Is that girl safe?” 

She’ll be as safe as you want as long as she 
doesn’t discover the door is locked,” said Davis. 
“When she does she will blow her way out of it with 
that automatic of hers.” 

“Automatic? Why didn’t you tell me she had 
an automatic?” 

“I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen,” 
said the mate, who was beginning to dislike the look 
of things. He was paid well, but there were some 
things—— 

George was silent for a moment. Then he 
said: 

“The only way we’re going to get past that ship 
is by bluffing them. I’m going to tell them who 
X am—Sutton’s partner—and warn them that the 
game is up and the Navy people after them. But 
the girl has got to be kept quiet. If she finds what 
we are doing she’ll make a devil of a fuss and give 
the show away.” 

Davis looked puzzled. 

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“I thought she knew the programme,” he said. 

“You were going to tell her, weren’t you?” 

The nineteenth baronet snarled. 

“Well, I didn’t! And I don’t want any comments 
from you, Davis.” 

“I think it’s a dirty game,” remarked the mate, 
“but it’s yours, not mine. Anyway, I’ll have her 
cabin door barricaded, and see that she can’t get 
out.” 

“Well, get on with it!” said George, and once 
more put his hand on the telegraph lever. 

He was feeling, in spite of the awkwardness of 
the whole situation, that the immediate project, 
that of bluffing the gun-runners, was once more in 
his line, and he proceeded to take the stern of the 
JVise Bird from the unpleasant proximity of the 
sands. He knew that the big steamer must have 
seen them some while ago, and he could imagine a 
puzzled captain aboard her. The Russian would 
be expecting the usual fleet of trawlers, and a white 
yacht with a twelve-pounder mounted on her fore¬ 
deck would be a difficult thing to digest. 

At this point the naval gunner appeared at the 
top of the bridge ladder, touched his forelock, and 
asked with ill-concealed eagerness: 

“Any orders, sir?” 

George had forgotten the naval gunner, and the 
two men he had been training for his gun-team. 
The nineteenth baronet repressed the desire to take 
his pistol from his holster, and said: 

1*70 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


“All right! Stand by!” 

The gunner disappeared, and in the fading light 
George could see him with his companions gathered 
in a knot about the breech of the gun. Then the 
mate reappeared with the information that the 
carpenter had managed to screw a plank across the 
door of the girl’s cabin without her hearing him at 
it. It was the best piece of news the nineteenth 
baronet had heard for some while, and he ap¬ 
proached the gun-running ship with all his intrigue- 
loving soul aflame at the bold simplicity of his plan. 
It appealed to his artist’s heart that he should be 
warning his friends the enemy against himself, a 
trusted minion of his country’s law. 

It could not have been much later than six o’clock 
in the evening, but with the mist hanging between 
them and the sky and the winter dusk it was quite 
dark when those on board the Wise Bird suddenly 
perceived a broad beam of white light which swept 
them comprehensively from end to end. It came 
from the white unwinking eye of the steamer’s 
searchlight; and it seemed curiously attracted by the 
twelve-pounder. It remained focused on it in what 
seemed a baleful stare. 

George damned the twelve-pounder, and hoped 
that Krein’s captain would see fit to investigate it 
more thoroughly before deciding to blow it into the 
sea. 

It was a vain hope. The Russian captain, nur¬ 
tured and bred in an atmosphere that took nothing 
[172] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


for granted and saw everything as suspicious, found 
nothing in him, nor, on consulting them, in his 
mates, that counselled investigation. He was big, 
and the Wise Bird was small. He had a variety 
of armament that did credit to the Communist ar¬ 
senals; the Wise Bird boasted but one small gun, 
and that was mounted in probably the most exposed 
position that could have been found for it. Also 
there was in these peaceful days no possible excuse 
for its presence at all, and side by side with it was 
the fact that there was not a trawler to be seen. 
True, he was twelve hours ahead of time, but he 
knew that the trawlers made it their invariable cus¬ 
tom to be fifteen hours ahead of time. It was all 
damnably suspicious. 

He had, therefore, everything to excuse his ap¬ 
parently impulsive conduct when he opened fire at 
such close range with his four-point-nine. 

George, on the bridge of the Wise Bird, came 
face to face with the fact that for the first time in 
his life he was up against sudden death in its barest, 
starkest form. He also realized that the twelve- 
pounder on the deck in front of him was firing rap¬ 
idly—the naval gunner had not waited for orders. 

George left the bridge to his mate. 

Jacqueline, who had finished loading the auto¬ 
matic, and was wondering what time the following 
morning the gun-runners would arrive, heard the 
sudden thundering of artillery and the scream of 
shells with joyful surprise, and dashed for the door 
[ 173 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

of the cabin. It took her all of five seconds to re¬ 
alize that it was locked, and that her adventure was 
being carried on without her. 


II 

B. J. had spent the afternoon wandering about 
the Old Dog, peering ahead into the mist and hold¬ 
ing long consultations with the patient Tom, who re¬ 
fused to take more than what appeared to be a 
casual interest in what might or might not happen 
when they got to the Crown of Terschelling. He 
merely vouchsafed the information that the Crown 
was a shifting locality—that the sands that formed 
it never kept the same position for more than a 
month at a stretch. 

“It seems an odd meeting-place for these peo¬ 
ple to arrange,” said B. J. “I should think a lot 
would depend on their finding each other quickly 
and getting the business over.” 

“Yes,” said Tom non-committally, and swung the 
wheel slightly. He seemed only intent upon keeping 
his weird sense of direction working to its fullest. 

It was about the end of the afternoon before they 
ran into clearer weather. The mist still hung down 
close to the sea in irregular patches, but they were 
patches that were becoming minute by minute more 
infrequent, and B. J. found much to cheer him in 
the fact. When they did get to the scene of action 
it would mean that they knew more what they were 
[i74] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

about. As dusk fell Tom hailed him from the 
bridge with the words: 

“We ought to be somewhere around the Crown. 
Shall we heave to or carry on a bit?” 

“Better keep steaming,” B. J. answered. 

“All right,” said Tom, and B. J. joined him on 
the bridge. 

The darkness and the mist between them gave 
poor visibility. The Old Dog seemed to be steam¬ 
ing in a world of dark grey water and vapour, nar¬ 
rowly confined by a circle of darker grey. B. J. dis¬ 
cussed the wisdom of remaining quiet or using the 
siren. Should they go on and rely on their luck to 
bring them near the Admiralty ship, assuming that 
it had already arrived, or make a noise and attract 
the attention of the gun-runners, assuming that they 
also had arrived? There was also the point, which 
seemed quite a likely one, that they were the first 
at the meeting-place. After all, they had left 
Grimsby only a few hours later than the Admiralty 
ship had left Southampton, and they had been using 
all their power all the time. The Admiralty boat, 
in addition to having nearly two hundred miles more 
seaway to cover, might not be hurrying. Indeed it 
might be more to their advantage to let the Russian 
ship reach the meeting-place first. 

In the middle of this debate a new movement 
crept into the easy swing of the Old Dog } s gait. 
She began to tremble in a queer sideways manner, 
and the instruments on the bridge rattled a little. 

[175] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

Also her pace decreased with alarming rapidity. 
Tom swore voluminously and pulled the lever of 
the telegraph over to full steam astern. 

“What the devil is it?” asked B. J., to whom the 
whole thing was extraordinarily alarming. 

Tom got over his first outburst, and his philoso¬ 
phy of quiet placidity had returned when he re¬ 
marked laconically: 

“Sand.” 

Almost as though the word had been a signal a 
beam of light shot like a sword across the darkness 
to the starboard, followed, it seemed within seconds, 
by a red flash and the ear-splitting crack of a heavy 
gun. Another followed the first, and then came 
an answering flash and report some distance away. 

“My God, they’ve started!” shouted B. J., and 
strained his eyes in the direction of the firing. For 
perhaps three minutes it continued, while the Old 
Dog backed water with every ounce of power she 
could get out of her cylinders. As she slowly 
moved back into deep water, and the trembling 
and vibration from the sand beneath her keel eased, 
the searchlight went out with a startling suddenness. 

B. J. danced in his impotency. He knew so well 
what was happening: the Admiralty boat had come 
to grips with the gun-runners, only to discover that 
she was dealing with an opponent whose weight of 
arms was far greater than her own. It was ob¬ 
vious, too, to whom the heavy gun and the search¬ 
light belonged, for from the same point there now 
[i?6] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


came the staccato explosions of two quick-firers, and 
B. J. knew that Krein was armed with quick-firers. 
As far as he could see the English boat had only one 
gun, and she would probably be a large launch of 
the Dover Patrol variety or some other auxiliary 
craft—at all events the gun-runners had everything 
on their side. 

And the girl was in the small ship. To his tor¬ 
tured imagination it seemed impossible that any 
boat could last a minute before such a bombardment 
at such close quarters, and across his vision passed 
scenes that made him put his hands to his eyes and 
mutter incoherent words. He saw torn decks, wet 
and slippery with blood, and wounded men crawling 
for shelter from the hell of screaming steel, the 
chaos and confusion of a ship sinking, and the rush 
of men for boats whose davit tackle was smashed 
beyond all using. And in the midst of it all was the 
girl he loved. 

“Can’t we do something? For God’s sake, 
can’t we do something?” he shouted aloud, and was 
aware that the crew were all about him, talking, 
straining their eyes and ears to follow the progress 
of the battle. Tom was shouting orders from the 
bridge, and then quite suddenly B. J. realized that 
at last the Old Dog was swinging round and slowly 
gathering way. In a minute the flash of guns was 
directly in front of the bows. 

B. J., clenching and unclenching his hands in the 
excitement and anxiety that held him, found himself 
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by Tom’s side on the bridge. The Grimsby man 
had taken in the situation and formed a plan to deal 
with it with all the speed and certainty with which 
he would decide how to trawl a shoal of herring. 
The first thing he had done was to order the lower¬ 
ing of the mast-head lights, and the extinguishing of 
any others that might be visible from the sea. 

“There is only one way of clearing up this mess, 
Mr. Sutton,” he said, “and that’s by dealing with 
the swine as they ought to be dealt with. We can t 
go up to them and say, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Russian, 
but I think it would be better if you stopped, because 
it isn’t a gentlemanly thing to shoot off guns in the 
middle of the North Sea in the piping days of peace.’ 
Pm going to get right away alongside her and board 
her. I don’t remember its being done in the last 
fifty years, and I don’t suppose it agrees with the 
ethics of modern warfare any more than it will 
agree with the interior economy of those bloody 
Russians.” And he expectorated feelingly. 

B. J. took his mind from the fears that possessed 
him long enough to grasp that this quiet man in 
the red carpet slippers was proposing to carry out 
one of the most difficult and perilous ventures that 
a man could find anywhere on the Seven Seas. He 
wondered if he would wear his red carpet slippers 
while he did it. 

They watched the movement of the battle as 
they came toward it, and B. J. found a measure of 
relief in the fact that the single gun on board the 
[i?8] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


Admiralty boat was still firing, irregularly, it was 
true, but that might have been due not to any lack 
of a crew to man it, but to the fact that the naval 
ship was moving in a circle with the Russian ship 
as its pivot. It called forth a comment from Tom. 

“They’re coming our way,” he said. 

“What’s the best thing to do?” asked B. J. 
“Let them know we’re here and offer to help? 
They must be in a pretty bad way.” 

“They’re all right,” said the fisherman. “I 
wouldn’t back any Bolshie gunner in the world to 
hit a stationary haystack in the middle of the after¬ 
noon, even if the range was ten yards, let alone to 
pot a moving boat in the dark. I haven’t been 
fearing for our chaps since that searchlight went 
out. It looked as though it had been shot out, too.” 

“What then?” 

“I’m for letting them carry on until they get the 
other side again, and slipping up to the Russian 
when she’s firing away from us. You see at the 
present moment- Ah!” 

A shell screamed through the upper darkness and 
whined away across the sands. It burst a mile be¬ 
hind with a splash of red flame that showed like a 
giant match-light in the night. 

“If that’s a sample of their target-shooting,” said 
Tom, “I don’t think even a searchlight would be 
any real use to ’em.” 

It was obvious that the course which the naval 
boat was now pursuing would bring her within fifty 
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yards of the Old Dog, and Tom swung the tele¬ 
graph to dead slow, remarking as he did so: 

“What beats me is why the Russian sits there 
and doesn’t try to run for it. When you come to 
think of it, the first thing he’d do would be to jump 
to the conclusion that the whole bloomin’ Navy was 
after him. They’re most of ’em conceited enough 
to think anything.” 

“He had the searchlight at the beginning,” said 
B. J. “He probably had a look round with it.” 

“True!” said Tom, and turned to the bos’n, who 
appeared as a vague bulk at the top of the ladder. 

“Pass the word to keep quiet, Bill, and tell 
Cookie that we’d like a cup of tea.” 

B. J. smiled in spite of the gravity of the situa¬ 
tion; he had yet to discover the moment when Tom 
did not like a cup of tea. He leant his elbows on 
the bridge rail and strained his ears, cupped in his 
hands, for the sound of engines which he knew 
would soon be audible as the Admiralty ship passed 
across their quarter—the ship that he imagined so 
battered and wounded, and which bore Jacqueline. 
He thought of the last time he had seen her, when 
she talked with her brother at the corner of Regent 
Street and the Mall, and the last time he had seen 
her eyes—after the Carlton House Terrace ball, 
when she had discovered that after all he was not 
Black Peter. 

He had thought often of that expression, and in 
U8o] 


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spite of his cautious nature could not help but be¬ 
lieve that it had been one of relief. And yet he 
told himself it was ridiculous to suppose that during 
those few short dances and the half-hour they were 
alone together in the conservatory she had become 
interested in him beyond the point of merely won¬ 
dering who he was behind the disguise of the Chi¬ 
nese river-pirate. After all, too, she was a girl 
who must know an innumerable quantity of men a 
great deal better than she knew him—the casual 
stranger of an hour. There must have been many 
incidents in her life in town calculated to infuse in¬ 
terest, and which in comparison far outweighed the 
effect of the one which concerned him. Again, 
there was the point of which he could not help over¬ 
rating the importance—the nerve-racking experience 
through which she had passed previous to her meet¬ 
ing him. It seemed impossible that a girl could fall 
even the smallest bit in love after such a night and 
such a morning. 

Now they were in this extraordinary and almost 
incredible situation in the middle of the North Sea, 
in the midst of a battle which might well thrill the 
world to its core when it heard about it. 

He tried to imagine what expression would light 
up her eyes when she saw him for the first time, 
when the adventure permitted them to see each 
other. She would recognize him not as the river- 
pirate, but as the son of Black Peter and the cad 

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who had humiliated and outwitted her and almost 
broken her ambitions at the moment of their ful¬ 
filment. He had learnt enough from her brother 
to understand the significance of her part in the 
plot—what success had meant to her—and he still 
had a vivid enough memory of the scorn and almost 
vicious hatred that had hardened the golden eyes 
that morning, which seemed a thousand years ago, 
in the police station in Vine Street. 

For all that he had faith in her sense of justice 
to show her that she had misjudged him when she 
learnt from tangible reality the exact part he had 
played. She would have to see from the pains and 
trouble he had taken to further her welfare that he 
was not of the breed of Black Peter even if that 
old reprobate’s blood was in his veins, but he 
dreaded with no uncertain discomfort her eyes when 
she saw him again. 

All this moved like fleeting shadows across the 
field of his mind as he waited for the yacht to pass 
them. All sound on board the Old Dog had ceased 
save the occasional scrape of a sea-boot on the dark 
deck below and the microscopic music of a thousand 
little water sounds that is never absent even on the 
stillest night. The bursts of firing from the Rus¬ 
sian ship had become more spasmodic as the uncer¬ 
tainty of her smaller opponent’s position increased. 

The British boat had not fired for three minutes, 
but the steady beat of her engines grew swiftly 
louder until B. T. almost expected to see her outline 
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looming up out of the night, for the mist had gone 
and insensibly the darkness grown less intense. 

Quite suddenly he realized that he could see her, 
and that she was white, and sliding through the still 
water like a ghost ship, eerie and curiously unsub¬ 
stantial. She could not have been more than a 
cable’s length from them. 

It was at this odd moment, a climax in the sense 
that it was the first glimpse that B. J. had of the boat 
he had come across the North Sea to warn, that the 
whole adventure turned from the path that likeli¬ 
hood indicated and became no longer an orthodox 
and almost ordinary effort on the part of authority 
to suppress anarchy, but a history concerning indi¬ 
viduals, their loves, their hates, their fears, their 
joys, and brought forth from them the latent emo¬ 
tions that lie hidden in the hearts of the most re¬ 
spectable among us. 

It turned on two things, both of them sounds, 
both of them utterly unexpected, yet both of them 
ordinary—had they come at any other place and at 
any other time. Both of them came from the Wise 
Bird as she moved unsuspectingly abreast of the 
Old Dog, and they fell upon B. J.’s ears and awoke 
in him something which had never before been 
awakened, and which persisted until the end of the 
adventure, carrying him with it as a straw is lifted 
high in the wind. 

The first sound was a shot which broke the pro¬ 
found silence. It was not clear and defined, but as 

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though it was fired somewhere below deck, and 
was followed by the second sound—Jacqueline’s 
voice raised in imperious, angry command. 
“George!” she cried. “Let me out!” 


[184] 


CHAPTER X 


There is a saying that the battle of Waterloo was 
won on the playing-fields of Eton, and it may or 
may not be true, but it is quite certain that the issue 
of the battle of Terschelling was very materially 
affected by the swimming baths of St. Paul’s. 

B. J. stood for perhaps a fifth part of a second, 
after hearing the girl’s voice, in that queer impo- 
tency that one experiences in dreams when one is 
called upon to put forth sudden physical energy. 
Then he flung himself off the bridge, ran swiftly 
half the length of the Old Dog y kicking off his sea- 
boots and shedding his coat as he went, and dived 
headlong over the rail. He did not wait to realize 
the iciness of the November sea, but struck out with 
all his strength to a point that would bring him and 
the yacht together. She was low built, and if he 
was unable to clamber aboard her it would not be 
because of any lack of agility on his part—if he 
reached her. 

As he swam he repeated over and over to himself, 
“What are they doing to her? What are they do¬ 
ing to her?”, and if it had not been for the fact that 
*he shot had preceded her voice he would have been 

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in a far greater agony of mind. As it was her voice 
had been strong, and with no note of pain in it, and 
whoever had been responsible for the shot, it had 
not harmed her. 

B. J. swam as he had never swum before; it was 
all a question of seconds. He knew that if the 
yacht changed her course in the slightest degree he 
might miss her altogether and be left in the water 
to assimilate the fact that the girl was in trouble 
and that every second that passed was taking her 
farther away from him. 

The white shape grew larger and larger until he 
was within what seemed like a touching distance, in 
reality perhaps ten feet. In a minute she would be 
past him, and in another swallowed up by the dark¬ 
ness. He put all he knew into one stupendous 
effort that brought him to her side at a point 
amidships. 

Everything was quiet on board, and not a light 
showed. As he reached her he thought he heard 
the mutter of voices, but he could not be sure. He 
pressed his hands against the wet side, hoping to be 
carried along with the yacht, but the plan worked 
only to a small extent, and he tore his nails in his 
effort to find purchase on the smooth steel of her 
hull. He realized, now that he was actually faced 
with the problem, that unless he hit on a method 
of getting aboard at once he would have done bet¬ 
ter to have stayed on the Old Dog } and followed 
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the yacht as best he could in the hope of catching 
her up. 

Luck came to B. J., as it sometimes will, but more 
often will not, when a man really needs it—in the 
form of a steel companion ladder bolted close to 
the hull and such as is often fitted to small boats of 
the type of the Wise Bird. B. J. had his back to it 
when it came, and it caught his shoulder as the yacht 
slipped past with a jar that shook his whole body. 
He turned over in the water, clutching wildly with 
both hands, and grasped the lowest of the steel 
rungs without realizing what it was. He only knew 
that it was solidly a part of the ship and that he 
was being drawn along with her by it. For perhaps 
a minute he clung, exhausted and bewildered after 
the blow on his shoulder, but slowly regaining his 
breath and his full consciousness to discover how 
cold the water was. He crooked his arms, drawing 
his head clear of the water, and peered upward in 
the darkness, and saw the vague silhouette of the 
deck rail against the night sky—and the next rung 
of the ladder. In a flash he knew what it was, mut¬ 
tered a fervent “Thank God!” and began climb¬ 
ing to the deck with slow and infinitely weary 
movements. 

When his head was level with the deck he paused, 
and with cautious, anxious eyes examined his im¬ 
mediate field of vision. The only thing he could 
see that struck him as being at all interesting was 

[187] 


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the twelve-pounder and the little group of men 
about its breech. They were all gazing fixedly in 
what was roughly the direction of the gun-runners, 
obviously waiting for an opportunity to fire again. 

B. J. was being forced to the realization that he 
was in an extremely awkward position. Not only 
had he to got to deal with an entire ship’s crew, but 
also with the fact that he did not know where the 
girl was, what was happening to her, who was caus¬ 
ing it to happen, and what that some one would say 
when he came aboard from what was apparently 
the somewhat comprehensive address of Terschel- 
ling, North Sea. The result of all this was the 
decision to do all that he had to do without being 
seen. 

He knew that the George to whom Jacqueline 
had referred in her cry of “George, let me out!” 
was Sir George Marsh, nineteenth baronet, for he 
had learnt from John Chester that that smiling 
gentleman was accompanying his sister to Southamp¬ 
ton. It was a fact that had caused him not a little 
emotion at the time, and an emotion that had grown 
in significance as the hours passed. He did not 
trust George by instinct, quite apart from his knowl¬ 
edge of his general capabilities. But from the ap¬ 
pearance of the battle when they had come to it it 
had looked as though Marsh was doing his best to 
smash the organization he had done so much to 
create; yet this new development hinted at some¬ 
thing which B. J. did not fully understand, but 
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which indicated that George had not finished being 
a scoundrel. B. J. was suspicious. 

Then, as though Providence had decided suddenly 
that he should have conviction lent to his suspicion, 
the voice of the smiling baronet broke the stillness 
from the bridge above him. He was addressing the 
gun-crew of the twelve-pounder. 

“That’s all right! Cease firing and get below!” 

The order seemed as perplexing to the men about 
the gun as it was to B. J. clinging to his ladder and 
wondering what he was to do next. For almost 
half a minute the little group discussed the question 
before finally obeying the order. They went, how¬ 
ever, and left B. J. with a much better chance of 
getting aboard without being seen than he had had 
before. He seized the opportunity, swung himself 
over the rail, and darted for the greater darkness of 
shadow under a boat. He sat under it shivering 
for three minutes, during which time he decided, by 
reason of the manoeuvres of the Wise Bird, that she 
had shelved any intention of trying conclusions with 
the enemy. It looked uncommonly as if George 
was running away. 

At first B. J. attributed the move to a decision 
on the part of the nineteenth baronet that he was 
not heavy enough to deal with the big steamer; but 
this became a little difficult to understand when he 
considered the apparently unharmed condition of 
the yacht, which in no way supported the efforts of 
his imagination which he had experienced when 
[189] 


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aboard the Old Dog , watching the bloodthirsty and 
spectacular effort of the gun-runners to blow the 
naval boat out of the sea. They must have been 
even worse marksmen than Tom had expected them 
to be. 

In the leisure which indecision forced upon him 
B. J. began to wonder what Tom was going to do 
about his sudden and entirely unexplained and un¬ 
expected dive into the North Sea. He would know 
that it would be in answer to the appeal for help 
from the white yacht, but beyond that he had very 
little to go on with regard to what his own course 
of proceedings should be. Would he stick to the 
original programme of trying to board the Russian 
ship, or would he follow the yacht, or, on the other 
hand, lower a boat and try to find his late super¬ 
cargo in the belief that he was treading water some¬ 
where in the darkness after failing to get aboard? 
Which would be a belief he would be quite justified 
in holding, for the more B. J. looked at it the mad¬ 
der and riskier his action seemed. 

However, the point was that he was aboard, that 
Jacqueline was in some way the victim of the nine¬ 
teenth baronet’s scoundrelly propensities, and that 
the Wise Bird was leaving the battle of Terschelling 
unfinished and heading with no little speed for some 
unknown destination. 

Once B. J. had established these three facts firmly 
in his mind he was able to form the conclusions that 
anybody with a little reasoning faculty might have 
[190] 


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been expected to form. Of the three, the third fact 
seemed to him the most immediate to be dealt with, 
inasmuch as Jacqueline must be more or less safe 
wherever she was as long as the nineteenth baronet 
was not near her and remained where he was on the 
bridge. The main problem, therefore, was to find 
an effective method of preventing the yacht from 
getting any nearer her unknown destination, and 
thus enable him to go about the rescuing of the girl 
unworried by where they might be when the morn¬ 
ing came. 

As he rose to his feet, struck with an idea, he sud¬ 
denly realized his exact position in relation to the 
girl, and all that had happened since he had last 
seen her. It occurred to him for the first time that 
he was taking a great deal for granted. He was as¬ 
suming, in the first place, that the story his father 
had told him was true, that quite apart from that 
and his own instincts Sir George Marsh was a black¬ 
guard, and that the girl was really in a position 
from which she needed rescuing. When one came 
to think of it George might merely have shut her 
up somewhere to keep her out of harm’s way, and 
his intention of leaving the gun-runners to their own 
devices might be merely a temporary move prepar¬ 
atory to some further strategy. 

The one thing that lent colour to his first instincts, 
however, was the shot. It did not support any real 
conviction that everything was as it should be, and 
following the policy which had governed so many 

t I 9i] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

of his actions from the beginning he decided that 
there really was something wrong, and stepping 
quietly out of his hiding-place began creeping to a 
point immediately below the bridge. As he did so 
he heard footsteps approaching round the corner. 
He stiffened, and flattened himself against one of 
the bridge supports. He also clenched his fists. 

To his immense relief, however, the unseen man, 
instead of moving out across the deck, mounted the 
bridge ladder, and B. J. heard the nineteenth bar¬ 
onet talking to him. Apparently the man was one 
of the officers, for he said: 

“Shall I take over, Sir George? I have just been 
working out our course, and everything is perfectly 
straightforward.” 

“Good!” 

Then B. J. learnt conclusively that his first sus¬ 
picions were right, and that what he had done was 
not so foolish as it might have been. He thanked 
whatever Power had favoured him with the gift of 
impulse. 

“I think, if I were you,” came the voice of the 
officer, “I’d go below and deal with that girl before 
she does anything else.” 

B. J. caught his breath, and heard the reply of 
the smiling George. To his ears it sounded terse; 
he could not catch the exact words, but there was 
enough in the tone to show that the nineteenth bar¬ 
onet was rattled, and he felt considerably cheered 
[192] 


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by the thought. He knew enough of boxing to be 
aware that the man who lost his nerve usually lost 
the fight. 

He heard George leave the bridge, and mastered 
the strong desire to follow him and throw him in the 
sea before he reached the companionway. It would 
have given him a warm, comfortable feeling to know 
that one of the chief flies in the ointment was bait¬ 
ing the Terschelling fish, but at the same time it 
would have created an uproar that would have 
brought the whole ship about his ears, and at such 
a moment that would have defeated his chief ob¬ 
ject—to prevent the yacht from leaving the imme¬ 
diate vicinity of the Old Dog. 

He waited, therefore, until the sound of George’s 
footsteps died away and left the deck quiet again 
before making his way cautiously to the foot of the 
bridge ladder. He reached it, and step by step 
climbed to the top, and saw the silhouette of a man’s 
head against what he now perceived to be a clear 
night sky. It was plain that they must have passed 
beyond the belt of mist, or that it had cleared. 

He watched the vague figure before him, and lis¬ 
tened to the slight creaking of the wheel as it swung 
beneath the man’s hand. It was that wheel which 
he wanted to feel beneath his own. 

With infinitely slow feet he made his way along 
the bridge to a point immediately behind the man, 
thanking his stars that the small light above the com- 

[193] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

pass did not cast its gleams farther than the instru¬ 
ment. Then he gripped in both hands the sodden 
muffler that had been round his neck and leapt. 


II 

At first Jacqueline had seen in the fact that 
George had locked her in the cabin only an effort on 
his part to keep her from the shells of the Russian 
ship, and she gave up her attempts to open the door 
by its handle as soon as she realized what it meant. 
She was furiously angry with George, and she re¬ 
garded his action as little short of immoral. It 
had been her adventure; she had worked for it; she 
had planned it, and schemed to bring it to this con¬ 
clusion, and now he had stolen it. He had stepped 
into the position of chief actor by the simple ex¬ 
pedient of turning a key in a lock, utterly disregard¬ 
ing the ethics of her claim to activity. 

She sat on a small chair by the side of her bunk 
and listened to the guns and the screaming shells 
with set teeth. It was obviously turning out a much 
bigger business than they had anticipated. 

It was at this point that she remembered her 
automatic, and, with a sudden wave of satisfaction 
sweeping over her, put the muzzle of it against the 
lock and pulled the trigger. It was, as we know, a 
large automatic with a large calibre, and it most 
effectively blew the lock out of the door. 

It was the sound of this shot, followed by Jacque- 
[ 194 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


line’s cry when she discovered that the door refused 
to open just as obstinately without a lock as with 
one, that had dragged B. J. off the bridge of the Old 
Dog and immersed him in the North Sea. 

Jacqueline returned to her chair, and kneeling on 
it looked out of the porthole in the hope of catch¬ 
ing sight of the enemy, or in some way discovering 
what was happening; but the battle was all to star¬ 
board, and out of sight. 

She had been sitting in the dark for some fifteen 
minutes already—all the electric light had been 
switched off some time before—and the dark did 
nothing to quieten the mingled emotions that held 
her. There was something acutely distressing in 
the suspense of having to sit still in a stuffy cabin 
and listen to sounds that resembled the end of the 
world, and know that she could not take part in it. 
Among other things the yacht was moving the whole 
time, and she could not make up her mind whether 
they were chasing or being chased, whether the fight 
was going their way or the enemy’s. 

After another five minutes of this sort of thing 
she went to the door again and hammered on it with 
her fists, but there seemed to be no one about, or if 
there was he was taking care to keep quiet. It 
was perhaps one of the most trying ordeals of her 
life, and the knowledge that she owed it to a man 
who said that he loved her infuriated her. She 
saw what a little fool she had been ever to have 
countenanced for a moment his having anything to 
[ 195 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

do with her affairs; but then how could she have 
known? He had been so keen to help her, and had 
helped her very considerably in the matter of recov¬ 
ering the Krein-Sutton papers for her after they 
had been taken away from her. 

It had seemed at the time the obvious thing to do 
to let him help her, but on the other hand she had 
realized subconsciously that he had had a more or 
less ulterior motive almost from the beginning. 
She had, however, been at some pains to delude 
herself into the belief that he would not take ad¬ 
vantage of her confidence in him. The more she 
thought about it the more certain did she become 
that he had been taking advantage of it from the 
moment she had given it. She had been blinded to 
the perception of the fact by her own enthusiasm in 
bringing about the adventure she craved, and she 
knew that she had to thank what is usually one of the 
greatest possessions of her sex—single-mindedness. 

It struck her suddenly as an odd moment for 
making introspective discoveries; but after all it is 
always that way. The mind is stimulated by all 
manner of emotions, and emotions only come to 
us to that degree when we least desire them. In 
Jacqueline’s case, however, it had a certain value, 
for she was able to deal with the next incident with 
far more quick-wittedness and understanding than 
would have been the case had she not made the dis¬ 
covery immediately before it. 

It was ushered into her consciousness by a sound 
[196] 


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on the other side of the cabin door as she realized 
that the firing of guns had ceased some minutes ago. 
She jumped to her feet. 

“.Who is there?” she asked. “Let me out at 
once!” 

“It’s George. We are letting you out.” 

She gathered that they were unscrewing a plank 
on the other side, and wondered, with a touch of 
irritation, how they managed to put it there with¬ 
out her knowing. In her impatience it seemed to 
be taking them an age, and when at last the door 
opened, and George, carrying a lantern, came into 
the cabin and closing the door put his back to it, 
she asked him with a quietness which told him that 
he was about to tackle one of the most difficult prob¬ 
lems of his life: 

“Perhaps you would tell me exactly what you 
mean by this?” 

George put the lantern on the floor, and keeping 
the smile on his face with some effort said: 

“I am sorry, my dear, that I had to take things 
into my own hands, but I know that when I have ex¬ 
plained them you will quite understand why I was 
forced to adopt rather strong measures.” 

He stopped for a moment and passed his hand 
over his mouth with a nervous gesture which she 
had not seen before. She realized, as B. J. had re¬ 
alized, that George was rattled, and she wondered 
what on earth could have caused it. She did not 
know that the nineteenth baronet was finding physi- 

[197] 


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cal scoundrelism more unpalatable than anything he 
had ever tried. 

“Go on,” she said. “I am waiting.” 

Then she was aware that the fear of him which 
her anger with him had effectively obliterated for 
the time being was returning. For a moment they 
looked at one another, and the subtlety of the psy¬ 
chology in which they were concerned was lost on 
them both. 

It was much the same as the wild beast and the 
human being, when the safety of the man in the 
presence of the animal is dependent not only upon 
his not showing fear, but also upon his not feeling 
it. The moment he feels it, however, the beast 
knows it, and the man has reason to fear for his life 
if he is not armed. 

Jacqueline did not show the fear that she was 
feeling, nor did the nineteenth baronet actually 
know that she was afraid. All he knew was that his 
own discomfort of mind suddenly left him, and that 
he felt in some way very much the master of the 
situation. He smiled with less effort, and still 
keeping his eyes on hers said: 

“You have been avoiding the point long enough.” 

There was a ring in his voice which told her 
as plainly as if it had been written in fire on the 
dim wall above his head: “You belong to me. I 
do as I will.” Then she heard his voice as he 
continued: 

“I told you yesterday that when I set my heart 
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upon a thing I take it. I decided four months ago, 
when I first came to your uncle’s house, that I 
wanted you. From that moment I thought of noth¬ 
ing else; I worked for nothing else save bringing 
about the fulfilment of that desire. I saw early 
that it had almost been arranged by Fate—things, 
circumstances, played into my hands. One day I 
will tell you the whole story, and you will see, my 
dear, how true that is, but now you have got to 
listen to me. You have got to realize that I love 
you—that nothing on the face of the earth— noth - 
ing —can stop me now. You are where I want you 
—that is the point you have been avoiding—d’you 
hear? You are where I want you!” 

Jacqueline faced him squarely enough, but she 
barely understood what he was saying. She merely 
saw his eyes, and the thing that was behind them, 
shining out through them. It was as if a curtain 
had been drawn aside from something that had 
been but vaguely discernible before. Now it was 
naked and bold—so bold that she felt a queer, al¬ 
most physical sickness at the sight of it. 

“Where you want me?” she repeated, and won¬ 
dered why she could not keep her voice even and 
natural. 

“Yes,” said the nineteenth baronet. “Where I 
want you. Listen to me, you little fool! Do you 
think you can put me aside indefinitely, as you have 
been doing this last week—two weeks, for that mat¬ 
ter? You thought you could make use of me and 
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THE SUTTON PAPERS 

accept my help without paying me my dues? Do 
you suppose I am the sort of man to go about lend¬ 
ing people a helping hand—a sort of charitable in¬ 
stitution—expecting no return?” 

“No!” she said, with a flash of the spirit that 
fear was killing so swiftly. “No. You are not 
that sort of man, and you are perfectly justified in 
calling me a little fool. I should have seen what 
sort of man you were.” 

The nineteenth baronet laughed, and for all that 
he could afford to laugh it was a horrible sound, 
eminently a snarl. It bared his teeth, and reminded 
her of a hungry wolf she had once seen at the Zoo 
when a lump of meat was being thrust through the 
bars of its cage. 

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said. “You wouldn’t 
dare ! They’d catch you—send you to prison—if 


“If I what?” he laughed again. “You’ll learn 
to love me soon enough—it will simply be a matter 
of breaking you in to the idea. I have handled 
horses and dogs, and I know how.” 

“Poor beasts,” she remarked under her breath. 

“They were grateful enough afterward,” he re¬ 
torted complacently, and added: “I am not afraid. 
My plans are cut and dried, and so simple. Your 
uncle knows by now that we are tackling a bigger 
job than he first supposed. He’ll be tearing his 
hair and turning out the British Navy, but by the 
time it gets here we shall be miles away, and it will 
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find nothing to tell the story of the Wise Bird’s gal¬ 
lant attempt but a little artistically arranged wreck¬ 
age—lifebelts, a few spars, and perhaps a water¬ 
logged boat, maybe with the yacht’s name on her. 
Some of it went overboard twenty-five minutes ago. 
Krein’s ship will go back to Archangel, and they’ll 
never hear of her again—and in six weeks, with 
decent luck, we’ll be in the South Pacific, on our own 
island. Think of it!” 

She saw that he had forgotten her for the moment 
and that his mind and vision were occupied with the 
island, the ambition he had cherished for the past 
ten years. It seemed an odd ambition—to be a 
sort of uncrowned king of a South Pacific island; 
but then she realized that he was one of those in 
whom the passion for power surpassed everything 
else. It represented the beginning and the end of 
things for him. 

In some futile hope that by gaining time she 
might escape she pretended to consider the propo¬ 
sition, and knowing the pride the man had in his 
own works tried to lead him into talking of them. 
She was indeed a drowning soul catching at a straw. 

“And the naval gunner?” she asked him. “Is he 
one of your men?” 

“He is not,” said George. “But he is a small 
problem, and one of which we can find a solution. 
He might go to add to the evidence of the Wise 
Bird’s unhappy fate in one of the lifebelts.” 

The girl tried to keep the horror from her eyes. 

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“You will kill him—in cold blood?” 

He put out his hands as though to protest against 
the crudity of the thought. 

“There is a chance that he can be persuaded,” he 
said. “He may take kindly to the idea of an offi¬ 
cial position in Kawaii—but on the other hand one 
never knows with these damned patriots.” 

Jacqueline knew that the fear was gaining ground; 
that she could not keep up the pretence of disinter¬ 
ested contempt for him which she tried to show. 
A wild, passionate desire to get away from him, to 
escape from the cabin which held them both, seized 
her, and with a choking cry of terror she flung her¬ 
self forward, beating him about the face and chest 
with clenched hands, struggling like some impris¬ 
oned bird against the restraining bars of its cage. 
She was conscious of only one thing, that outside 
was the air and freedom, and that she could breathe 
there. 

“Let me go!” she cried. “Let me go!” There 
was an agony of supplication in the voice that had 
never before uttered a syllable which was not as¬ 
sured. The nineteenth baronet, smiling the while, 
tried to hold her and pinion her arms. 

Then several things happened in quick succession, 
bringing the girl out of her hysteria of fear to a 
state of stupefied amazement and relief. 

Only the first of the several things was accidental; 
that was the overturning of the hurricane lantern on 
the floor of the cabin by George, in his efforts to 
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keep his feet braced to the task of holding the fu¬ 
ture Queen of Kawaii. He saw what he was about 
to do, cursed himself for a fool for not putting the 
lantern on the table, tried to avoid it, stumbled, 
and brought his boot down on it with a splintering 
stamp that smashed it to pieces and plunged the lit¬ 
tle cabin in darkness. 

He still held one of the girl’s wrists, however, 
and made a desperate effort to clutch the other. 
They fought for a moment in the same grim silence 
which had followed her first cry. Then in the midst 
of it George realized that the door was no longer 
shut and that there was some one else in the cabin. 
He opened his mouth to appeal to the unknown for 
help, and at the same moment felt a pair of unex¬ 
pected and violent hands about his throat, pulling 
him backward. There was also an uncompromis¬ 
ingly sharp knee somewhere in the small of his back. 

His appeal got as far as his larynx, but stuck 
there by reason of the external pressure on it. He 
let go of the girl’s wrist in order to tear madly at 
the constricting hands, aware of a man’s hard 
breathing in his ear. 

Then, just as the strain was at its utmost, the 
whole yacht gave a sudden lurch which jerked him 
from his assailants grasp and flung them both across 
the cabin in a heap. He put out a hand to save him¬ 
self, failed, and felt a terrific blow on the side of 
his head. There was a sudden blaze of blinding 
light, followed by a vast blackness into which he 
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THE SUTTON PAPERS 

fell helplessly; it engulfed him utterly, and he lost 
consciousness. 

The same lurch threw Jacqueline against the bul¬ 
wark just as she had realized that some one was 
intervening. When the shock subsided she discov¬ 
ered that the yacht had come to a complete stop, 
and furthermore was listing heavily. She regained 
her feet with difficulty, and the next moment felt 
fingers over her mouth and heard a vaguely familiar 
voice saying: 

“Keep quiet! For God’s sake, keep quiet!” 
The fingers were removed, and a firm hand grasped 
hers in the darkness. “Come on,” the voice went 
on. “I lashed the wheel and ran the ship aground, 
and if we hurry we can get away while they are still 
discovering it.” 

In spite of an absorbing wish to let go of every¬ 
thing, and the humiliating knowledge that she was 
going to faint she asked in an almost querulous 
whisper: 

“Who are you?” 

“Damned if I know,” said B. J. “You know me 
by such a lot of names, but you do know that one day 
I am going to make love to you.” 

The words floated into the girl’s half-conscious 
mind like words from a dream; she understood 
them, and knew that the voice was that of the Chi¬ 
nese river-pirate. Then, with it still in her ears, she 
fainted incontinently, wondering why he should have 
chosen such an odd moment to re-enter her life. 

[204] 


CHAPTER XI 


As she swayed B. J. felt the sudden weight of the 
girl against his shoulder, and pivoting on his heel 
was able to prevent her falling. He knew what was 
the matter with her, but he was a little doubtful 
about its cause. It was too dark to find out, and he 
was too worried to guess. Had she fainted because 
of the situation from which he had rescued her, or 
because of his manner of introducing himself? He 
dismissed the last supposition as ridiculous, but al¬ 
lowed that it would have been nice if she had. In 
the meantime, however, the state of affairs in which 
they were could by no stretch of imagination be 
termed nice—unless one called it a nice state of 
affairs. It was undoubtedly that. 

The yacht settled over on the side of her keel 
after the first shock of meeting the sand, and al¬ 
ready B. J. could hear the crew moving hurriedly 
about the decks. Presently they would find—per¬ 
haps already had found—that there was no one on 
the bridge, and he knew perfectly well that such a 
fact would engender a strong spirit of inquiry. He 
had foreseen trouble in any case when he had been 
trying to decide what to do with the officer after he 
had throttled him into a fitting disinterestedness. 
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He had had two courses to consider—either to leave 
him where he was, or hide him away. If he left 
him where he was they would find him at once when 
the ship ran aground, release him, and hear from 
him the alarming story of how he had been attacked 
from behind—and they would search the ship for 
his assailant. On the other hand, if he gagged and 
hid him somewhere a state of perplexity would reign 
on board for quite a little while, long enough per¬ 
haps to get Jacqueline away in the confusion. 

This had seemed the wisest course, so after lash¬ 
ing the wheel so that it would bring the yacht on to 
the distant sands—visible as a blacker line on the 
edge of the black sea—he had tied the wrists and 
ankles of the unconscious man and stuffed him un¬ 
der one of the boats. Before doing this last, how¬ 
ever, he had changed clothes with him, and so 
overcame the problem of having to deal with mat¬ 
ters when he was wet to the skin and cold. In the 
process of the changing he became the possessor of 
a useful-looking revolver and thirty good cartridges. 
They had cheered him not a little. 

And now the girl had collapsed, multiplying the 
difficulties that faced him several hundredfold, for 
he had counted on her being able to leave the yacht 
by herself while he kept in the background and got 
off as best he could in the darkness and confusion. 
The whole crew, perhaps seven or eight men, were 
above them, solving the mystery of how the yacht 
could have gone aground and what had happened 

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to the man on the bridge. In a few minutes they 
would be trying to refer the matter to a nineteenth 
baronet who also could not be found, for he lay in 
the corner of the pitch-dark cabin, and except for 
an occasional grunt of slowly returning conscious¬ 
ness was taking very little part in the proceedings— 
as yet. 

B. J. set his teeth, bent his knees, hoisted the limp 
body of the girl over his shoulder, and began mak¬ 
ing a cautious way out of the cabin, blessing the 
heavy darkness that still reigned throughout the 
ship. He knew that it could not last long, for 
sooner or later some one would turn on the main 
switch again. Their anxiety to clear up the mystery 
would outweigh any caution regarding what the 
Russian ship would do if it caught sight of them. 
In any case the gun-runners must have been left 
some distance behind, for the Crown of Terschel- 
ling, where contact had taken place, was all of 
twelve sea miles from the main island, and it was 
to the main island these sands belonged. 

The short length of corridor which connected 
Jacqueline’s cabin to the bottom of the companion- 
way was intersected by another corridor running 
between the main saloon of the yacht and the big 
cabin which George occupied. B. J. did not know 
this. The bos’n of the Wise Bird, having quelled 
the slight panic which started on deck when the 
crew discovered the several disquieting aspects of 
the incident, came down the companionway from 
[207] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

the fore-deck at the same moment at which B. J. 
with the girl on his shoulder reached the end of 
the short corridor. B. J. heard the sounds of the 
descending bos’n, and stepped quickly back into the 
side corridor, hoping that whoever it was would 
take the opposite one to the saloon. But the bos n 
was on his way to George’s cabin to look for him, 
and therefore turned to the left and banged into 
B. J., who kicked him smartly on the shin, and said: 

“Look out, you fool! Miss Chester is ill. I m 
taking her on deck.” And he walked past the 
swearing man and reached the foot of the compan¬ 
ionway before the bos’n gathered his wits and de¬ 
manded, realizing that the voice was one he did not 
know: 

“Who the ’ell are you?” 

B. J. did not answer, but began climbing the nar¬ 
row steps as steadily as his burden permitted. The 
bos’n, already shaken and undecided by the yacht’s 
strange behaviour and the absence of her captain 
and her owner, obeyed his original impulse, as a 
man will under such circumstances, and went on 
down the corridor to George’s cabin. The oddity 
of the fact that he did not recognize B. J.’s voice 
and also the vague but alarming silhouette of the 
girl’s drooping figure over his shoulder against the 
patch of night sky that marked the top of the com¬ 
panionway did not leave that depth of impression 
on his mind which it would have done under more 
normal conditions. 

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He was still blundering feverishly about George’s 
cabin and cursing himself for not ordering the lights 
to be switched on when B. J. came out on deck. The 
crew to a man were ’midships lowering a boat, and 
they were having considerable difficulty with it be¬ 
cause of the angle at which the yacht was lying. 
B. J. lowered the girl’s feet to the deck, and sup¬ 
porting her in an upright position considered the 
situation. 

The crew, or one of the more intelligent of them, 
had obviously decided that the most important thing 
at the moment was to get the yacht back into deep 
water again, for she lurched and bumped in a sicken¬ 
ing manner as the bigger waves broke on her. Un¬ 
less they did something soon she would buckle a 
plate, and there would be the devil to pay. Ap¬ 
parently they had given up the solving of the mys¬ 
tery until that risk was obviated, and B. J. com¬ 
mended and at the same time blessed their common 
sense. It might, with a little luck, be the saving of 
the situation as far as he was concerned. 

With keen eyes he searched their immediate sur¬ 
roundings. He could see the long stretches of Ter- 
schelling Sands and far away to the left a black 
object with regular lines that looked like a fisher¬ 
man’s storehouse. He pursed his lips at the sight 
of it, and saw in it a possible shelter if it were oc¬ 
cupied or a stronghold if it were not. He focused 
all his attention on it, estimating the distance they 
would have to cover to reach it, and wondering how 
[209] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

far they could get across the sands without being 
seen from the yacht—assuming they could leave it 
undetected. In any case he could do nothing until 
the girl came out of her faint—and even then it was 
a question if she would have sufficient strength in 
reserve to make the attempt. She had been un¬ 
conscious for five minutes, and he knew enough 
about such things to realize that every new minute 
that passed meant a further loss of power when she 
recovered. 

Rather abruptly there came to him the knowledge 
that things were in a very bad way indeed. Fail¬ 
ure now would be a great deal more difficult to face 
than it would have been twenty minutes earlier, be¬ 
fore he had the living body of the girl in his arms. 
B. J. knew now exactly to what degree he loved her, 
and the discovery did nothing to quieten his fears. 
An odd thing, too, was the way in which her hatred 
of him as the son of Peter Sutton had faded in in¬ 
significance to the bottom of his list of anxieties. 
Somehow the moment of her inevitable discovery 
lost its terror; it may have been that getting to grips 
with the thing he was fighting—George Marsh and 
all that George Marsh stood for—had given him a 
new sense of power, of unassailability. In his pres¬ 
ent mood he would not care how much she hated 
hi m —the fact that he loved her absorbed every 
other emotion he or she had or could have. 

In the meantime he stood back in the darkest 
shadows of the deck, behind the companion-hatch, 
[210] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


held the girl close to him, and alternately watched 
the crew as they struggled to lower the boat and 
the black outline of the distant building on the is¬ 
land of Terschelling. A slowly recurring gleam 
from the south, the lighthouse on the southern point 
of the island, was the only light in the black world 
of sea and sand. It shone yellowy red, and told 
him that the mist had drifted south. 

He had been wishing that the girl would regain 
consciousness, but the sudden realization that the 
light, at present harmless, would, as the mist drifted 
on, grow brighter until it became a definite beam 
turned his wish into a prayer. With that to cope 
with in addition to the other difficulties, their chance 
of ever getting to the shelter of the distant building 
would be poor indeed. 

As he was recalling the previous occasion on 
which he had so ardently desired her to return to 
life—that first night when she had lain so pitifully 
on his Chesterfield in the flat in Half Moon Street 
—she stirred suddenly and drew a sharp breath. 
With a quick movement he put a warning hand over 
her mouth for the second time that evening, and 
whispered: 

“Quiet! Keep quiet! It’s all right.” 

He kept it there until he was certain that she was 
completely conscious, and then, removing it, said 
in a low voice: 

“We’re going to land if you’re strong enough. 
They haven’t discovered what has happened yet, 

[an] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


but they soon will. We’ve still time, I think. Are 
you all right?” 

Jacqueline stood upright, freeing herself from his 
arms, and said a little shakily: 

“Yes. Yes. Where is he?” 

B. J. knew she meant the nineteenth baronet. 

“Still in the cabin, I hope, but he won’t stay quiet 
very long.” 

“Stay quiet?” 

“Yes. He knocked his head against something 
when the yacht struck.” 

There was a short pause before she said: 

“I remember.” 

He wondered how much; if she had heard his in¬ 
troduction, “One day I am going to make love to 
you.” Apparently she had, for she seemed to. 
be accepting him and his presence in the ad¬ 
venture. In any case it was no moment to discuss 
personalities with the minutes hurrying them to¬ 
ward discovery. 

“Can you manage to walk alone?” he asked her, 
and heard her reply with considerable relief. 

“Of course. I was a silly little goose to cave in 
just then—but it was rather wonderful, and unbe¬ 
lievable, hearing your voice—and a bit of a shock. 
I was in the middle of being more frightened than 
I have ever been in my life.” 

B. J. glowed, and explained briefly his plan for 
reaching the hut on the sands. 

“We can hide there until daylight, anyway, and 
[212] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


then see how things are,” he said. “There ought to 
be several ways of dealing with the situation.” 
There was more optimism in his voice than in his 
heart. Things might have become dreary indeed 
by the morning if the Old Dog was not around, and 
George recovered his wits. 

With the silence of shadows the two picked their 
way over the tackle that obstructed the fo’c’sle 
deck, a proceeding made all the more difficult by the 
slope of the yacht, and reached the extreme point 
of the bows as the men about the davits ’midships 
succeeded in lowering the boat. The confusion 
they made about it, and the darkness, effectively 
enabled B. J. and the girl to drop a rope overboard. 
They half slid, half climbed down it—the man go¬ 
ing first—and in something less than two minutes 
from the moment they left the cover of the 
companion-hatch were standing side by side on the 
firm sand with the yacht’s stranded nose rising 
above them into the night sky. 

“So far so good,” said B. J., and rubbed his 
hands, wet from the rope, on the trousers of the un¬ 
fortunate Mr. Davis. Then he looked in the di¬ 
rection of the black building on the sky-line. As 
he did so a sudden shout from somewhere on board 
the ship—it sounded as if it came from below decks 
—made them both jump, and although it was too 
dark for B. J. to see the movement he knew the girl 
had put her hand to her throat. She was still a 
good deal shaken. 


[213] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“What was that?” she said quickly. 

“Someone has discovered George,” he remarked. 
“This is where the fun begins, and we get from un¬ 
der. Come on.” And he began leading her across 
the sands in the direction of the hut. 

They went in silence for perhaps a hundred 
yards, intent upon the necessity of putting as much 
distance as possible between them and the yacht. 
The night seemed, if anything, darker than ever, 
and heavy clouds hung low, obscuring the vague, 
diffused starlight which had come after the passing 
of the mist. Several times B. J. had to stop and 
reassure himself of the position of their objective, 
and once he had the uncomfortable feeling that he 
had lost touch with the girl, for the sand deadened 
the sound of their footsteps. He called “Jacque¬ 
line !” in a low, urgent voice, and found with relief 
that she was almost at his side. 

He took her hand, and held it thereafter, thrill¬ 
ing at the warmth of it within his own, and an¬ 
swered the questions which were now occupying her 
mind. The first was about the gun-runners. Had 
they been dealt with? 

“You see, George locked me up before the fight¬ 
ing began,” she explained. 

“When I saw them last they had just finished 
firing a broadside that would have done credit to 
a Dreadnought,” said B. J. “After that your yacht 
began running for it, and things seemed to fizzle 
out. From what I could see of it they were just 

[214] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

getting into their stride. I expected to find your 
packet pretty well smashed up, but it wasn’t.” 

“George is a devil,” said Jacqueline in a hard, 
flat voice that B. J. had heard before, which when 
he thought of it made him suddenly cold. 

“He is,” he agreed. “A perfectly good devil, 
and from the look of it he had no intention of fight¬ 
ing at all. He might almost have fallen into the 
battle by accident.” 

“Yes. He practically told me as much,” said the 
girl. “He’s been playing a double game from the 
beginning.” 

“I know, but I didn’t know you did.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I knew the day of the bal masque that he was in 
with Peter Sutton in the Soviet secret-arming-of-the- 
masses stunt.” 

“He was what?” Jacqueline tightened her grip 
on his hand. 

“I thought you couldn’t have known,” B. J. said 
grimly. “He’s been playing at least two double 
games—maybe three. He double-crossed Peter 
Sutton by letting your people know of the existence 
and whereabouts of those papers—and now he’s 
double-crossed you by pretending to help you in the 
adventure. I suppose he was trying to run away 
with you?” 

“He was,” said Jacqueline. 

“Then thank heavens I stopped him!” B. J.’s 
voice was devoutly and sincerely thankful. 

[215] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“Who are you?” she began. “How did you 
know what was happening—how did you find me in 
the middle of the North Sea, and how was it you 
came just at the right moment? Were you on 
board all the time?” 

B. J. laughed softly, to hide his anxiety, for he 
realized that it was no moment to declare himself. 
To say, “I am the son of Peter Sutton, the man 
who humiliated you, who outwitted you, who . . 
and all the rest of the beastly story, was frankly im¬ 
possible when there was so much to be done and 
done well. To be hindered by a defensive, unsympa¬ 
thetic attitude on the part of the girl would treble 
the difficulties of an already doubtful hazard. She 
might see at once that she had misjudged him by 
the light of his subsequent conduct, but then she 
might not. In all probability it would take her a 
considerable while to readjust herself, particularly 
since she was already in a highly strung, nervous 
state of mind. 

And so he said: 

“I was not on board. I discovered what was 
happening, chartered a ship, and came on the chance 
of being useful. I had luck—your yacht passed 
close to us during the fuss this evening. I heard a 
shot and your cry to George to let you out. I 
jumped overboard and swam for the yacht. I man¬ 
aged to get aboard, and choked the johnnie on the 
bridge. Then I lashed the wheel so that the yacht 
would fetch up against these sands, and went below 
[216] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


to look for you. I found you—again I had luck, 
and the rest you know.” 

They plodded on for a minute in silence again. 
Then the girl said in a subdued, hesitating voice: 

“You—you did all that for me?” 

“Why, yes,” said B. J. cheerfully, aware only 
of the fact that he had once again escaped having to 
tell her who he was. 

Jacqueline seemed to be absorbing this amazing, 
almost incredible factor in the adventure, and find¬ 
ing it difficult. The whole thing was so entirely 
unexpected. She had so far held her finger on the 
pulse of each successive incident and phase in the 
story, but now, without the slightest warning, there 
appeared another beat in it of which she had had no 
inkling. The more she considered it the more 
clearly did she feel that it was the most important 
and the most crucial beat of them all. 

It was the realization of this fact that gave her a 
sense of inferiority in relation to this strange youth 
whom she had, as far as she knew, only met once 
before and then as the Chinese river-pirate at the 
bal masque. It occurred to her that if he did not 
intend to tell her who he was she had no earthly 
right to ask him to. He had certainly assumed a 
great deal in taking a hand in her affairs, but since 
that hand held all the trumps she could not in any 
conscience assume the right to question it. It was 
humiliating, but it was the fortune of war—or 
something else she did not attempt to define. And 
[217] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

therefore, instead of asking why and who and what, 
she held her peace and found herself content to 
leave things to him. 

It was just after this that B. J. looked back in 
the direction of the stranded yacht and saw that she 
was blazing with light. There was a line of disks— 
her portholes—and a moving light on the decks 
which showed that some one was searching for the 
missing officer. A vague sound of movement, 
voices, and so forth floated across the sands. 

‘They’re well started,” said B. J. “Ten minutes 
will see them with the trouble diagnosed and a defi¬ 
nite policy. We shan’t have any too much time.” 

“No,” agreed the girl, and added almost to her¬ 
self, “I seem to know your voice.” 

B. J. jumped mentally, and remembered that as 
the Chinese river-pirate at the bal masque he had 
taken the precaution—which the emergency of the 
present situation had driven from his mind of 
assuming a slight but disguising hoarseness. He 
made no comment, but hoped devoutly that she 
would begin thinking of something else and leave 
the question of his identity alone. As it was he 
knew he had only the darkness and her own dis¬ 
traught state of mind to thank for his immunity 
from discovery. Daylight would tell her all she 
wanted to know. 

They came to within a hundred yards of the build¬ 
ing which to both of them represented sanctuary, 
and blundered into a pool of water. It took B. J., 
[218] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


fretting and fuming, ten long minutes to find a way 
round it. At last they got clear of it and ap¬ 
proached the objective. It was, as B. J. had at first 
supposed, a storehouse of some kind. There were 
no windows in it, and only one door, which was at 
the back. They prowled round it, exploring it. 

It seemed to be about thirty feet long by ten 
broad, and built of stout ship’s timbers heavily 
coated with tar. Altogether it struck B. J. as being 
quite an efficient form of fortress if they could get 
into it. The only disadvantage to the idea of mak¬ 
ing use of it would be that George could hardly be 
expected to overlook it when he started to look for 
the girl. Indeed, as B. J. saw it, it might be the 
first place he searched the moment he discovered 
that she was not on board. 

He was considering this as he tried to prise open 
the door with the barrel of Davis’ revolver, and 
had decided to take the risk, when Jacqueline, who 
was waiting by his side, and who had evidently been 
pursuing a similar train of thought, said: 

“They’ll know we’re here. I suppose you realize 
that?” 

“Well, it’s certainly likely.” 

“It’s more than likely; it’s inevitable. They have 
only to see our footprints in the sand.” 

B. J. stopped working on the door. 

“Damn!” he said. “I’d forgotten that!” 

“You should read a book by a man called Defoe,” 
remarked Jacqueline quietly, but with a little note 
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of joy in her voice. She was beginning to take her 
proper part in the adventure—she had seen some¬ 
thing which the river-pirate, for all his high-handed 
atmosphere of the hardened adventurer, had over¬ 
looked. 

“What are we to do?” asked B. J., more to him¬ 
self than to her. “Shall we push on and trust to 
luck to find help—or stick it out here and hope that 
my ship will be around somewhere?” 

“Stick it out here,” said Jacqueline promptly. 

B. J. considered her in the darkness. Then he 
put his shoulder to the door. 


[220] 


CHAPTER XII 


The bos’n found George. He found him in the 
cabin of Miss Chester, crawling about and search¬ 
ing for the door. The bos’n struck a match, and at 
the sight of his owner and the generally dilapidated 
state of the cabin gave the shout which B. J. and 
the girl heard, and ejaculated “Blimey!” several 
times. He also forgot their relative social posi¬ 
tions so far as to beseech the nineteenth baronet to 
“tell ’im wot ’ad ’appened” as he helped him to his 
feet. 

George did not answer. He did not know. All 
he asked was: 

“Where is Miss Chester?” 

The bos’n scratched his head, and then told his 
owner of his encounter with the man at the foot of 
the companionway, and informed him that Miss 
Chester was ill and had presumably been taken on 
deck. 

“On deck? Ill?” said George blankly, and rub¬ 
bing the large egg-like hillock which rose from his 
aristocratic brow sat on the edge of the bunk and 
tried to remember things, while the bos’n struck one 
match after another. 

“Where-?” began George, and then inter- 

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THE SUTTON PAPERS 

rupted himself as memory returned. “What was 
that crash? Did we hit something?” 

“Yessir,” said the bos’n, perceiving that at last 
George was able to absorb information. W r e re 
aground somewhere, sir. We don’t rightly know 
where, but it’s sand o’ sorts.” 

“Aground? Sand? What the devil has Davis 
been up to?” 

“Mr. Davis can’t be found, sir. The bridge was 
empty an’ the wheel lashed. We’re well aground, 
and I’ve ordered a boat to tow us off.” 

The bos’n was enjoying the distinction of being 
the first to tell the story that was mystifying the 
ship. 

George sat upright, completely in possession of 
his senses. 

“What? Isn’t Mr. Davis on board?” 

“Not so far as we can find, sir.” 

“You say some one carried Miss Chester on deck. 
Was it Mr. Davis?” 

The bos’n scratched his head again. 

“I don’t think so, sir. It might ’a’ been, o’ 
course.” 

George was beginning to foster a strong suspicion, 
a suspicion which had occupied his mind once or 
twice in the earlier and less exciting phases of the 
voyage. 

“Of course it was!” he snapped, and got to his 
feet. 

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“Get the electric-light current switched on at 
once, and report to me on deck. This has got to 
be looked into!” 

“Yessir,” said the bos’n, and hurried away. 
George stood for a moment in thought, his lips 
working. Then he said aloud: 

“The swine! He’s collared her! And he dam’ 
nearly killed me doing it. What the devil does the 
fool think he’s up to? He knows enough of me to 
realize that that sort of game is about the most dan¬ 
gerous he could play. I’ll cut the heart out of 
him!” 

It may have been the sudden intervention of 
primitive instincts and primitive methods of express¬ 
ing them on the part of Davis, or on the other hand 
it may have been the effect of the blow on the head, 
but, whatever it was, it was responsible for the emo¬ 
tion which burst with a good red flame in the heart 
of the nineteenth baronet as he left the disordered 
cabin which had so lately been the scene of his love- 
making. It was an emotion he had never experi¬ 
enced before, and it caused him to arrive on deck 
with the firm intention of killing Mr. Davis the mo¬ 
ment he could get that double-crosser’s throat be¬ 
tween his hands. The more his mind dwelt on the 
situation the more furiously angry did he become. 
He saw with startling clearness the whole thing: 
the reason for the girl’s attitude toward him—her 
coldness, and Davis’ odd manner, showing disap- 
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proval and sympathy for the girl. The brute had 
rescued her. They had outwitted him—made a 
fool of him. 

The thought that he had been made a fool of did 
nothing to ease the rage that possessed him. He 
smiled and smiled, and watched the boat astern tow¬ 
ing the Wise Bird's nose from the sand that seemed 
so reluctant to part with it, and the search-party 
which covered the whole ship. He let it search, but 
he was convinced that neither of the errant lovers 
was on board. Davis had planned everything with 
extraordinary neatness, so that he had got off the 
ship in the confusion. Even now they were ashore, 
and every minute was taking them farther away. 
They would never have stayed aboard. 

George would have given what little remained of 
his soul for an efficient searchlight to sweep the 
darkness of those sands, and swore at the mist which 
was beginning to creep stealthily over everything. 
The propellers of the Wise Bird threshed furiously 
to aid the boat in the misty darkness astern, and 
George stamped impotently up and down the slop¬ 
ing bridge. 

In the middle of it all they found the mate. The 
bos’n’s voice came up like a voice from an inverted 
heaven to George’s ears: 

“Here he is, sir!” 

A moment later the nineteenth baronet was con¬ 
templating the recumbent form of Mr. Davis with 
appalled eyes. 


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“Cut him loose,” he ordered, and realized that 
quite suddenly the whole picture had fallen to pieces 
before him, leaving him blind and completely at a 
loss. If Davis had not taken her, who had? It 
was a question he could not answer, and he hoped, 
but with little optimism, that Davis could. They 
took the gag out of the unfortunate’s mouth—a gag 
consisting of a strip of his own shirt—and helped 
him to his feet. 

“Who was it?” demanded George. “Come on, 
man! Who’s got her?” 

The mate regarded him vaguely. 

“Trussed like a damned chicken,” he said, and 
sneezed violently. Then he felt his throat tenderly, 
and added: “And he screwed my neck like a chick¬ 
en’s.” Then he sneezed again, because B. J.’s 
clothes after their immersion in the North Sea were 
uncompromisingly damp. 

“Don’t you know who did it? Didn’t you see 
them?” George was shouting now. 

“It wasn’t them! There was only one. I didn’t 
see him—I only felt him,” said the mate. “I’m 
damned cold. I’m going to bed.” 

He went, sneezing and with stiff limbs. George 
watched him go in the light of the search-party’s 
lantern, and struggled manfully with the unreason¬ 
able desire to throw him in the sea. 

It took them fifteen minutes’ hard work to get the 
Wise Bird into deep water, and by the time it was 
accomplished the mist was thick again, black swirls 
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THE SUTTON PAPERS 


of it, choking and blinding them. The nineteenth 
baronet waited only until the anchor was dropped 
before calling the roll. He found that everybody 
was aboard and the ship’s crew complete. Jacque¬ 
line was the single absentee, and if there had not 
been such a weight of evidence of his existence there 
might never have been an unknown visitor of kid¬ 
napping tendencies aboard the JVise Bird. 

With the return of the mist came an increased 
anger in his heart, for he saw in it the symbol of 
his own impotency and blindness. With no clear 
method of thought—an unusual lack in him—he de¬ 
termined to search the sands, and set about the 
forming of a landing-party. He equipped it with 
lanterns and served out revolvers to four of the 
more reliable of the six men of whom it was com¬ 
posed, with strict orders not to use them unless he 
gave the word. He made it clear to them that he 
did not care particularly what happened to the man 
if they found him, but that under no circumstances 
whatsoever must the girl be harmed. 

The six men were six lusty fellows picked from 
the ranks of the organization over which he had 
until recently been in part control, and they had 
chosen to follow him personally and form the nu¬ 
cleus of the white population of the kingdom in the 
South Pacific which the nineteenth baronet had ac¬ 
quired. It may have been their lustiness which the 
six had to thank for their individual reasons for 
wishing to go abroad; certainly none of them would 
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THE SUTTON PAPERS 


have struck a careful observer as being wrongly de¬ 
tained had he seen them in one of our institutions 
for the safeguarding of confirmed law-breakers. 

George surveyed them before embarking with 
them in the landing boat with a certain satisfaction 
that did much to alienate the more distressing of 
the emotions which held him in their grip. Be¬ 
tween them they ought to be able to deal with one 
man and a girl, however violent-natured the man, 
however independent-spirited the girl. 

At the memory of that spirit his smile broadened 
wickedly, and in imagination his hand closed on the 
stick of a riding-whip. He had handled horses and 
dogs—and women. He knew how. 

His was a cheerful disposition. 

II 

You will have noticed in this story of B. J.’s how, 
step by step, phase by phase, the various factors or 
aspects of the queer adventure have eliminated 
themselves. The first factor to do this, and the one 
on which perhaps the whole thing depended for its 
origin, B. J.’s father, known to the more disrepu¬ 
table members of society as Black Peter, having 
started the trouble, decamped forthwith for the 
Hotel Splendide, Ostend. 

Then there was B. J.’s fiancee, who fled auto¬ 
matically from his heart the moment almost that he 
saw Jacqueline Chester and the golden eyes of her— 
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THE SUTTON PAPERS 

eyes that blinded the young man to the full realiza¬ 
tion of the dishonourable thing he was doing in let¬ 
ting her take the place of one whom he had thought 
he loved; the truth of it being that honour and dis¬ 
honour have really nothing to do with love. Love 
is not all a matter of duty, and, being a good deal 
stronger than it, has no regard for it. But that 
is as it may be. 

The third factor to disappear from the scene of 
the play is the Soviet gun-runners, who, after firing 
a great deal of ammunition and generally behaving 
in a thoroughly creditable manner, turned round 
and took their cargo of rifles, which were to have 
been used in the cause of Freedom and Liberty, back 
to Archangel, where they belonged. 

They did this at aproximately the same time that 
B. J. left the Old Dog and dived into the sea in 
answer to Jacqueline’s appeal for help, and effec¬ 
tively solved the problem which arose in the mind of 
the Old Dog's skipper, who was faced with the ques¬ 
tion of which cause he should take up: that of his 
country—Russian gun-runners were certainly con¬ 
trary to the ethics of the British Constitution—or 
that of his employer at the moment, young Mr. Sut¬ 
ton, who seemed to be behaving with unusual idiocy 
and needed looking after. There was, as a matter 
of fact, very little question in his mind, for within 
a space of seconds from B. J.’s leaving the deck so 
unexpectedly he had got the Old Dog about and was 
following the wake of the strange yacht, a white 
[228] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


pathway in the black sea. He hesitated only long 
enough to make certain that the young man had 
managed to board the yacht and was not swimming 
about, and then settled down to keep pace with the 
ship in front. 

He found it difficult. The Wise Bird did fifteen 
knots to the Old Dog’s twelve, and it was an ad¬ 
vantage which told considerably. The Grimsby 
man knew that if the chase lasted any length of time 
he would lose the quarry, but for all the anxiety he 
felt, however, he maintained a calm, judicial atti¬ 
tude which only thawed when at odd moments he re¬ 
alized that the muggy dampness of the atmosphere 
was threatening his carpet slippers. 

The method of keeping to the trail by means of 
the other ship’s wake was not an easy one, and as 
the minutes went by it increased in difficulty. At 
last it become a matter for a man with a powerful 
electric torch at the bows and a line of men from 
him to the wheelsman to keep the latter informed. 
Indeed, if it had not been for the fact that in lashing 
the wheel B. J. ensured that the Wise Bird kept an 
absolutely direct course, it is doubtful if Tom could 
have kept at her heels as long as he did. 

They were only saved from going aground im¬ 
mediately on top of the quarry by the fact that the 
bos’n of the yacht turned on the main electric-light 
switch and illuminated her when the Old Dog was 
about half a mile astern. Tom was frankly mysti¬ 
fied by this phenomenon, and until he hit on the 
[229] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

reason was at a loss to explain how it could happen. 
He had time to swing the Old Dog into a curve 
which took her away from the danger zone of dis¬ 
covery, and was able to heave to at a point conven¬ 
iently in the background from which he could watch 
the course of events and decide what was to be done. 
At the moment everything seemed quiet on board 
the yacht, except that her engines were racing rather 
energetically. 

Tom, by reason of the darkness and the descend¬ 
ing mist, had not realized that the Wise Bird was 
on the sands, and it puzzled him not a little to hear 
her internal energy and not see some external sign 
of it, for she did not move for some minutes. When 
she did her stern appeared to go down and then up 
again to a new level in an odd manner. It then 
struck him that she had been backing off an invisible 
sand-bank, and that she must have been travelling 
at a considerable speed when she ran on to it—a 
speed which had driven her bows high and dry. 

Somebody in charge had been excessively careless, 
and the fisherman spat contemptuously into the sea 
at the thought of it. After this he renewed his 
orders that no light of any kind was to be shown on 
board, and settled down to await events. Albert de 
Vere, whose anxiety was obvious, came and stood by 
his side on the little bridge, muffled to the eyes in a 
huge coat. 

Approximately thirty minutes elapsed, during 
which time the mist became heavier, smudging the 

[230] 


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lights of the yacht until it was difficult to distinguish 
them except as a diffused patch of brightness in the 
dark. 

“I wish to Gawd I knew wot ’e was up to,” said 
Albert de Vere, with a more than usually hoarse 
note in his high voice. “This hinhactivity is killin’ 
me.” 

Quite suddenly their waiting ended. Out of the 
mist somewhere beyond the bright patch came the 
sounds of a single shot followed immediately by two 
more in quick successsion. Then a vague shouting 
of heavy voices. 

“Well, it can’t kill you any more,” said Tom. 
“He’s started something.” 

“Wot the ’ell! Wot the ’ell!” ejaculated Al¬ 
bert in the tones of one in torment, and he began 
dancing up and down. 

“Shut up, and listen, damn you!” said Tom. 
“This is where we’ve got to do something!” 

Two minutes later they began to do it. 

Ill 

B. J. found that the door of the hut was 
barred from within in addition to being locked from 
without, and he could not make out how it could 
have been done if it was, as he supposed, the 
only entrance. He explained the phenomenon to 
Jacqueline. 

“Then there must be another door,” she said. 

[231] 


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“We went round the place pretty carefully,” he 
answered. “Surely we should have found it.” 

“Shall I have another look?” 

“No,” said B. J., who had no intention of letting 
her leave him for an instant now that he had got 
her. He passed his hands over the door once more, 
and then by accident hit on the secret. There was 
an armhole cut in the side of the building itself, 
some six inches from the frame of the door. He 
thrust his hand through it and felt the end of the 
bar resting in a wooden staple. 

“We’re in!” he said, and lifted the bar. It 
dropped inside with a noise which seemed to echo 
and re-echo across the quiet sands like thunder. A 
moment later he had broken the flimsy lock, and 
they were standing side by side in a darkness which 
made the night outside comparatively light for all 
its blackness. B. J. closed and rebarred the door. 

“Have you got a light of any kind?” asked the 
girl, as they began feeling their way forward. 

B. J. lied gallantly, telling himself that matches 
could not exactly be termed a light until they were 
struck. He had a box which was almost full— 
Davis’ matches in the pocket of Davis’ coat—and he 
had no reason to use them which could in any way 
be said to outweigh the reason why he should not, 
the reason that by striking one of them he would 
enable her to see his face. 

So he said “No,” and helped her to scramble over 
a pile of fishing-nets which seemed to occupy the 

[232] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

centre of the hut. The place was full of smells, 
fishy smells, sea smells, and tar smells from the 
timber of which it was built, and odd creaky noises 
to which they listened in the pauses of exploration. 

They found the opposite wall at last by stumbling 
into it, and B. J. began running the fingers of his 
right hand over the planks (his left hand was grasp¬ 
ing the girl’s wrist) in search of holes or crevices 
through which he might see what the night permit¬ 
ted him to see of the yacht and the men on board 
her. It seemed an age since they had left her and an 
eternity since they had got to the door of the hut, 
and in B. J.’s imagination he could see the sands 
swarming with armed avengers and the nineteenth 
baronet smiling in the darkness in spite of a sore 
head. 

He began to wonder if he had chosen the wisest 
course in bringing the girl to the hut, and the mo¬ 
ment he began to wonder he began to doubt it ex¬ 
ceedingly. Here they would be like rats in a trap, 
with but few teeth to fight the men who were seek¬ 
ing them. One revolver and thirty cartridges and 
the blackest of nights to use them in. What earthly 
use were they except at close quarters?—and to be 
at close quarters would mean that things were going 
badly and on the brink of failure. Wouldn’t it 
have been better to keep to the sands and the 
friendly darkness—darkness which in here was as 
bad an enemy as they could have? 

At length he found a place where a plank which 
[ 233 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

had not been properly tarred had rotted away, leav¬ 
ing a hole some six inches square and level with his 
shoulder. He peered through it, and realized that 
it had the advantage of being a loophole for the re¬ 
volver as well as a spy-hole for his eyes. 

“Can you see anything?” Jacqueline asked him. 
“Let me look.” 

He guided her to it, and she peered with him, 
necessitating a proximity of her cheek—a proximity 
of which he was keenly aware in spite of the diffi¬ 
culties with which his mind was occupied. He re¬ 
sisted the ridiculous desire to kiss it softly, so softly 
that she would not realize what he was doing, and 
told himself that there would be time for that sort 
of thing when she had learnt who he was, and had 
forgiven him for being that odious person—a state 
of affairs which at the moment seemed well out of 
the range of possibility. 

“There!” said Jacqueline suddenly. “Look! 
To the right! Can you see it?” 

“Yes,” said B. J. quietly. “It” was a light, mov¬ 
ing irregularly toward them, and as yet blurred and 
vague in the mist, but indubitably the lantern of the 
avengers. It was immediately between the hut and 
the yacht, and was following the line of their 
footmarks. 

B. J., under the spur of the crisis that was coming, 
began to think more rapidly, and he could see only 
one plan which was at all feasible and at all likely 
to achieve anything, and it was a plan which would 

[234] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


mean his allowing the girl out of his sight at a time 
when he most ardently desired that she should be 
in it. 

“Listen,” he said, talking quickly and with his 
eyes on the moving, nearing light. “There’s only 
one thing for it. You must let yourself out of here 
and strike out across the sands at right angles to 
the way we came so that you keep along the coast. 
Go to the left as we face now; it will bring you 
eventually to the lighthouse we saw before the mist 
came down again. It may take you two hours, per¬ 
haps three. Tell the lighthouse-keeper the story 
and see what you can do. In any case you will be 
perfectly safe there. Go now. Go before the 
blighters get any nearer.” 

Jacqueline seemed to ponder. Then she said: 

“It’s a very nice plan—for me. What about 
you?” 

“I’m all right. I’ll hold them up while you make 
a start. There are thirty cartridges, and there 
can’t be more than seven or eight men. Five car¬ 
tridges each—I ought to be able to deal with them.” 
His voice was the last word in cheery, almost bois¬ 
terous optimism. 

The girl laughed softly. 

“You ought,” she said. “But you won’t, and you 
know you won’t. I’m staying here, thank you very 
much.” 

B. J. was conscious of an emotion. 

“You can’t do any good,” he said. “You haven’t 

[235] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

a revolver. Why should we both be—be—well, 
anything might happen, but why should it happen to 
both of us? Go, I tell you! Go!” He was al¬ 
most growling at her. Then he added with a con¬ 
viction that set her wondering: “Honestly, for 
several reasons, it would be better if you went. 
The whole situation is ridiculous in the extreme. I 
love you; you don’t love me. You never will, never 
can, love me. If you just go, and I sort of fade out 
of your life, it will be so much simpler—so much 
easier for you and—and-” 

“And-?” 

“Oh, nothing. Jacqueline, you’d better go, be¬ 
fore it’s too late.” 

B. J. was in a curious state of emotion which was 
as mysterious to him as it was to the girl who was 
faced with it for the first time. 

“I’m not going,” she said. “I don’t want to go. 
I don’t want things to be simple and easy—I’ve been 
trying to avoid simple and easy things all my life, 
and nothing in the world is going to make me 
choose them at a moment like this. I’m staying 
here.” 

B. J. knew that he had only to say a few words— 
tell her that he was the son of Black Peter, that he 
was one of the gang—and she would go. But some¬ 
thing stopped him; perhaps that she should be de¬ 
liberately accepting an unknown situation and a dan¬ 
gerous phase on the way to it with a determination, 
that thrilled him unutterably. 

[236] 




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“All right,” he said. 

“You’re a dear,” said Jacqueline Chester. “But 
I think you are somewhat of a hero, Mr. River- 
pirate.” 

B. J. grunted, and without quite knowing what he 
was doing thrust the revolver into the loophole and 
fired at the group of men which had become visible 
behind the lantern. They stopped, and scattered, 
and B. J. put two more shots into them before the 
lantern went out, but as far as he could determine 
he had not hit anybody. He replaced the spent car¬ 
tridges with three of the precious thirty, and waited 
patiently, wondering why they had not answered 
his fire, until it occurred to him that they could not 
very well do so without running a serious risk of 
injuring the girl. The thought cheered him, and 
things assumed a brighter aspect. 

One of the characteristics of the climate which 
reigns over the dreary wastes of Terschelling and 
the other equally dreary islands that shut off the 
Zuyder Zee from the North Sea is an amazing ca¬ 
pacity for changing entirely and unexpectedly from 
sun to rain or rain to snow or snow to mist or any¬ 
thing to anything, irrespective of the reasonable and 
logical laws of climate, in an incredibly short space 
of time. Indeed, we have already seen the manner 
in which the mist came and went and came again on 
this particular night at the end of November. 

The next development it achieved was a moon, 
which appeared for some ten minutes and during a 

[237] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

period when the mist had drifted off again. This 
moon was not full, but perhaps within three nights 
of the full, with the result that it formed a not in¬ 
considerable illumination for the scene on the sands 
of Terschelling. 

It revealed to B. J., for instance, the yacht he had 
so effectively mishandled; it showed him the six 
lusty henchmen of the nineteenth baronet advanc¬ 
ing on the hut in an open line—perhaps a twenty- 
yard interval between each—and the nineteenth 
baronet himself on the extreme right of it. He 
knew him by the different kind of clothes he wore 
and his slim build. 

He put a bullet as near him as he could get it in 
the awkward half-light, but it was not quite near 
enough. George jumped slightly, and flung himself 
on his face, as did the six lusty henchmen. No one 
fired back. 

“What fun!” said Jacqueline, and B. J. saw that 
she had found another peep-hole. 

“Yes,” he said. “It’s fun as long as that moon 
stays there, and I can see them to pot at them the 
moment they get up. But from the look of it it 
won’t be there very long. It’s just a gap in a gen¬ 
erally dirty night.” 

“Did you see George jump?” 

“I did.” 

“Can I have a shot at him?” 

“If you think you can hit him.” 

“I’ll try.” 


[238] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


Jacqueline took the revolver, and aimed carefully 
before pulling the trigger. She missed the prone 
baronet by several feet, and she explained that if it 
had been her own automatic she might have done 
better. 

“I don’t believe Pve ever shot at a lover before,” 
she said, and they both laughed. It was indeed a 
queer pursuit for a girl of gentle birth—but then 
other girls of gentle birth are not loved by nine¬ 
teenth baronets who smile perpetually and whose 
pet ambition it is to be the king of a South Pacific 
island. 

There was no movement on the part of the enemy 
during the next few minutes, and B. J. realized that 
they were waiting for the moon to be obscured by 
the clouds before advancing. 

One of the chief disadvantages of being in the 
hut was the difficulty he would have when it became 
necessary to guard all four sides of it in the event 
of a combined attack from different points. He 
saw that ultimately the fighting would be at the 
door, but that would not come until the enemy found 
where the door was. It had been difficult enough 
for him to find it when there had been no one inside 
to prevent him with a revolver. 

Suddenly his attention was even further focused 
on the door. There came a sharp rapping on it 
which was at the same time stealthy and urgent. 
They both swung round at the sound of it, their 
minds grasping the significance of it and searching 

[239] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

for an explanation. There was only one. Some¬ 
body was there; somebody wanted to come in; and 
under the circumstances that some one could only 
be one of the avengers. Apart from the moon, it 
would explain why the men in front were not mak¬ 
ing any move. 

“It’s a trick,” said B. J. “Stay here, and for 
heaven’s sake don’t move. If anything happens to 
me you’d better surrender. They’ll get you sooner 
or later. You ought to have gone when I told you 
to.” 

As silently as the darkness and the clutter of 
tackle would allow he made his way to the door, and 
reached it as the rapping ceased. He listened care¬ 
fully, and heard a man’s heavy breathing, which told 
either of excitement or exhaustion. He tried to 
catch a glimpse of him through the armhole by the 
side of the door, and found that it was blocked by 
something which he knew must be the man’s body. 
The fact that he had only to put the muzzle of his 
revolver against it and pull the trigger to dispose 
of one of the avengers was comforting knowledge, 
and he waited for the next interval between the 
raps. Then he said sharply: 

“Who’s there?” 

“Accrington, sir.” 

It was the last answer in the world that B. J. was 
expecting, and for a moment he doubted the evi¬ 
dence of his ears. But the unmistakable voice of 
[240] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


Albert de Vere’s placid friend, “Arfer” Accrington, 
continued: 

“Let me in, sir. This blasted moon will give me 
away.” 

With fumbling hands B. J. unbarred the door and 
let the long, lanky figure into the hut, rebarred the 
door, and said: 

“How the devil did you get here? Is Tom 
somewhere around?” 

“Yes, sir. We’re lying up just off here—behind 
that yacht you played the devil with. We run a 
boat across and I came along to see what was up. 
Albert wanted to do the job, but his nerves ain’t 
what they ought to be. Tom says if you like he 
can swipe that there yacht. We’ve been lookin’ 
round it, an’ there doesn’t seem to be many aboard 
her. It looks like as if they was most of ’em play¬ 
ing hide-an’-seek on the sands.” 

B. J. was with difficulty digesting the revolution¬ 
ary effect this new development was having on the 
general situation. After a moment’s silence he 
gathered his wits, and said: 

“Tell Tom to go ahead. He’s quite right. 
There are perhaps two men aboard the yacht. Let 
him collar her without these johnnies knowing any¬ 
thing about it—I’ll hold them here long enough. 
Have a boat waiting for me ready to move the mo¬ 
ment I jump into it—I shall probably be running 
for it.” 

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THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“Yep,” said “Arfer” Accrington. “Tom said 
something about a girl.” 

“She’s here. You take her back with you now, 
while you can. Half a second.” 

B. J. stumbled back to the other side of the hut, 
and found the girl in an agony of excitement. 

“Who is it? What were you talking about?” 
she said. “Isn’t it one of George’s men?” 

“No. One of mine. There’s no time to explain, 
but things have rather suddenly straightened them¬ 
selves out. I’ll take you across to him now. You’re 
to go with him to the ship I came along in—the Old 
Dog —where you’ll be perfectly safe. She’s waiting 
off the sands. I’ll join you in ten minutes’ time. 
Come on!” 

She followed him to the door, where the tall man 
was examining the state of the night through the 
armhole. At the sound of them he said cheerfully: 

“The moon’s going in, thank Gawd. It’ll be as 
dark as pitch in a minute.” 

“Then I’ll be getting back to those huskies in 
front,” said B. J. “This is Miss Chester.” And 
he guided the girl’s hand into that of “Arfer’s.” 
“Arfer” held it firmly, and said in a placid, fatherly 
manner: 

“You’ll be all right now, missy. You grap holt 
o’ my hand and keep holt of it. We’ve got to get 
across to the sea without your friends a-knowin’. 
S’long, sir. I’ll tell Tom.” 

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“Good-bye,” said B. J. “Get him to move at 
once.” 

He held Jacqueline’s other hand for a moment, 
and felt beyond all doubt an answering pressure, 
but it thrilled him little in the knowledge of how 
near was the time of reckoning, how soon the in¬ 
evitable shattering of the fine structure he had built 
up under the disguising cloak of darkness. 

As he barred the door after them and went back 
to the loophole he cogitated unhappily on the true 
principle that those who build houses on sand do not 
as a rule live long in them. 

The moon was hidden, and heavy darkness once 
more the order of the night. The prone figures 
of the nineteenth baronet and his six men were but 
darker objects in a dark in which it seemed impos¬ 
sible that anything could be visible. B. J. strained 
his eyes to catch the first movement, which he knew 
was only a matter of seconds now that the moon had 
gone. He estimated the time it would take “Arfer” 
and the girl to get clear of the hut and into the open, 
and blazed three shots at the seven avengers in or¬ 
der to take their minds off anything but the hut. 
He reloaded the three chambers, and fired another 
three shots, and following this system ensured that 
his revolver was never empty. 

In spite of the fact that he could no longer see 
the enemy he knew that they were on the move. 
It was a suspicion that became a certainty when a 

[243] 


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few minutes later—five at the most—he heard the 
unmistakable sound of some one creeping along the 
sand immediately against the hut. 

He put a shot in the direction of it. It ceased 
for a moment or two, then recommenced. It was 
at this point that B. J. decided that he had had 
enough of the rat-in-the-trap role, and forthwith 
made his way to the door. Before unbarring it he 
listened with his senses keyed to their highest recep¬ 
tivity, and came to the conclusion that the avengers 
had not yet surrounded the hut. Stealthily, and 
moving the bar of the door in slow, silent inches, 
he opened it, and again listened. The way was 
clear. With a quick rush that took him twenty 
yards across the sands before the closest of the 
watchers could have realized it and taken action he 
bolted from the door—his feet hardly making a 
sound on the yielding sand. 

For a brief second he thought that he had escaped 
unnoticed, but a shout from somewhere near the 
corner of the hut told him that it was a false hope, 
and he set out to run as he had never run before. 

The task before him was simple, but required a 
certain amount of common luck and a lot of endur¬ 
ance, and briefly came to this: He had to lead the 
avengers away from the sea without letting them 
get close enough to him to realize that they were 
chasing one man, and not one man and a girl. 
Once he had them well after him he would have to 
[ 2 44 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

shake them off before turning and making for the 
sea again and the boat that would be waiting for 
him. And he would have to judge the time Tom 
took to board the yacht. It would complicate mat¬ 
ters unnecessarily if he led the chase seaward too 
soon. 

The sand over which he ran seemed level enough, 
and the occasional pools of invisible water became 
fewer as he progressed inland. His sense of di¬ 
rection was helped not a little by the distant light¬ 
house. By the position of its light he was able to 
keep to a more or less straight course at right angles 
to the seacoast. The mist lay in patches of vary¬ 
ing density, and when he passed through them it 
caused entertaining changes from pale yellow to 
dark crimson in the colour of the light. 

The pursuers were close at his heels now; he 
could hear them calling to one another to keep 
touch, and at times heard the thudding of their feet 
behind him. Now and then he shouted, as though 
to a companion, to lend them heart and reassure 
them of his position. Twice when he was afraid 
they had lost him he fired back into the darkness, 
and hurried on again to keep away from the spurt 
they made in answer to the shots. 

Once he attempted and succeeded in a risky piece 
of strategy which was suggested by the desire for a 
rest. This was to diverge slightly, and fling himself 
down on the sand and let them pass him. They did, 
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THE SUTTON PAPERS 

like sheep, and he was able to make certain that they 
were all in the chase. At the end of fifty yards they 
discovered that they had lost him, and he heard 
them shouting to one another. He rose to his feet, 
fired three shots after them, and started off again 
at right angles to his previous course and toward the 
lighthouse, coming a few minutes later into a par¬ 
ticularly heavy stratum of fog which enabled him 
to stop and decide that they still held the trail. 

He discovered himself to be in a comparatively 
exhausted condition, and decided that it was time he 
began thinking of getting back to the sea and the 
waiting boat. This was where the men who were 
following him had got to lose him, and lose him for 
good. He listened, and as he stood there the dark¬ 
ness immediately before his eyes became suddenly 
darker in what seemed an inexplicable manner. 
Then a man blundered into him before there was 
even time for him to step to one side or ward off the 
new-comer. 

It was the nineteenth baronet, and he mistook 
B. J. for one of his own men, for he said breath¬ 
lessly and irritably: 

“Don’t stand about, you fool! Can you hear 
him?” 

“No,” said B. J., mumbling his voice, and lower¬ 
ing his revolver. 

George seemed to be peering into his face. 

“Who are you?” he demanded suddenly, and a 
little anxiously. 


[246] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

B. J. mumbled again, and began making quickly 
seaward. As he broke into a run he heard the anx¬ 
ious baronet say: 

“What the devil is the matter with these sands?” 
Then he must have heard B. J.’s running feet, for 
he gave a short, barking shout, and started after 
him. 

B. J. debated in his mind the advisability of fol¬ 
lowing a natural instinct, which was to wait for the 
nineteenth baronet to come up with him and knock 
him on the head with the butt of his revolver, and 
decided against it. It might involve a delaying 
fight. 

With all that he had left in him he began the last 
lap, a distance of perhaps three-quarters of a mile. 
It w r as heavy going, and anxious, for if he did not 
hit the exact point where the boat was waiting he 
might spend valuable minutes looking for it. To 
avoid this contingency he struck out to reach the 
sea at its nearest point with the intention of turning 
northward when he came to it and thus making sure 
of the boat, even at the expense of having to cover 
more ground. 

To his dismay he could hear the nineteenth bar¬ 
onet twenty yards behind him, and running strongly. 
The smiling George was showing a greater stamina 
than B. J. would have expected of him, and with a 
view to discouraging him he swung round in his 
stride, steadied himself, and pulled the trigger of 
his revolver, with no more result than an empty 
[ 247 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

click. He remembered that he had fired five shots 
without reloading. 

He found the sea by the sound of waves and the 
wetness of the sand, turned north, and with the sin¬ 
gle pursuer still close behind him made his final dash 
to elude him, searching the darkness ahead of him 
for signs of the yacht and the boat. His legs seemed 
as if they were tightly bandaged with cotton-wool, 
and his lungs constricted by a steel band about his 
chest. He found that to breathe was an increasing 
difficulty, and that his one dominant desire was to 
lie down and let the furious pounding of his heart 
quieten. He set his teeth, and stuck to it. 

Then he saw the lights of the yacht through the 
mist, and a moment later a light close to the shore 
which would be the lantern of the waiting boat. 
With tottering legs and bursting heart he reached it, 
heard the sharp, welcoming voice of Albert de Yere, 
and fell over the side of the boat with a sense of 
achievement and profound relief. They pulled him 
aboard, and he lay at full length in the bottom look¬ 
ing up into the blackness of the sky, taking his 
breath in great gulps. 

“All clear! Push off!” called a voice, and he 
felt the keel slide from the sand into the water. 

It was Albert de Vere who first perceived the fact 
that B. J. was not the only runner on the sands. 
The dim form of the nineteenth baronet loomed up 
into the light of the lantern and began scrambling 
over the side. He may have thought that it was his 
[248] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

own boat, or he may not have thought about it at all 
beyond believing that the girl was in it. At all 
events Albert de Vere recognized him at once, and 
after assisting him into the boat took advantage of 
his exhausted condition to tie his hands and feet with 
strips of the red cotton handkerchief that adorned 
his own throat. He also took from his pocket 
Jacqueline’s automatic and slipped it into his own. 

The boat moved smartly in the direction of the 
yacht, and Albert contemplated the result of his 
handiwork in the light of the hurricane lantern with 
pleased eyes. 

“Smile now, you bloomin’ nineteenth bart. 
Smile!” he beseeched him. 


[249] 


CHAPTER XIII 


“Arfer” Accrington had had no trouble in guid- 
ing Jacqueline back to the sea and to a boat in which 
Albert de Vere waited impatiently for his return. 
That he should not arrive with B. J. had been the 
last straw to the unhappy Albert, and his subsequent 
anger and anxiety were not improved by the fact 
that the “skirt”—the root, cause, and beginning of 
all the trouble—should be given preference in the 
matter of rescue. He had muttered vengeance on 
the head of the placid “Arfer” all the way back to 
the Old Dog and throughout the message the tall 
one brought from his master for Tom. Even the 
interesting but uneventful capture of the Wise Bird 
which followed at once under the competent com¬ 
mand of the Grimsby fishermen did not allay his 
emotions. 

To his mind a stunt of this kind was not at all 
the sort of occupation for a gentleman, and he con¬ 
sidered that the sooner it was brought to an end 
the better. Albert desired to be a valet—ardently 
—more ardently, indeed, than he had wanted to be 
anything else in his whole life; more than he had 
wanted to be a fireman, which had been his ambition 
at the age when a bright and shining hat is the sym- 
[250] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

bol of all earthly power. And how could he be an 
efficient valet to a gentleman who had such disturb¬ 
ing habits—such as diving overboard into the mid¬ 
dle of the North Sea without the slightest warning 
and running about sand-banks at midnight firing a 
revolver? 

It wasn’t done. 

Albert, however, found solace for his troubled 
mind in the capture of the nineteenth baronet. It 
seemed to him that by doing so he was removing one 
of the chief obstacles in the path of a quiet and 
fully valeted life for his master, and beyond a cer¬ 
tain amount of anger that still remained in his heart 
regarding the incompetency of “Arfer” Accrington 
he felt a lot better. 

But take note of this remnant of his feelings, for 
in a truly surprising manner it affected the lives of 
most of them. But before we come to that there 
are one or two things that must be cleared up. 

Tom’s reception of Accrington and the girl and 
the message he brought with him was philosophical, 
but quietly positive in the direction of action. He 
had been working out a simple plan for the board¬ 
ing of the yacht while Accrington was away on his 
errand of rescue, and by the time he returned it was 
ready to be put into execution. It was, indeed, the 
first occasion on which he had been called upon to 
play pirate, but since so many surprising and un¬ 
constitutional things had happened in the course of 
the night it did not worry his conscience particularly. 

[251] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

The attitude of the crew was similar. They would 
do much for the man who had given them such 
a quiet, restful voyage—which this had been by com¬ 
parison with the average trawling—and who had 
brought aboard such a quantity and variety of sugar 
cakes. They regarded the whole business as an un¬ 
expected spree, and to take possession of a strange 
vessel in the dark of night was but a climax to it. 
Also the aristocratic whiteness and the aristocratic 
lines of the Wise Bird aroused their ingrained dem¬ 
ocratic spirit. 

And so the nice white yacht which was to have 
carried the nineteenth baronet and his bride to his 
island kingdom fell easily, like a ripe plum from a 
tree, into the sacrilegious, calloused hands of the 
deep-sea fishermen. As also did the bride, but 
willingly. Tom welcomed her politely, ill at ease 
in the presence of a woman so far from the places 
where women ought to be, and escorted her to her 
own cabin, which he had ordered to be “put to 
rights.” He left her after she had extracted from 
him a promise that she should be told the moment 
“he” came aboard. By “he” she meant B. J., but 
she did not take the opportunity Tom presented to 
find out the name of the man who was employing 
him. She felt that she would like to hear it from 
her rescuer’s own lips. 

With difficulty she remained in her cabin, for it 
was alive with the memory of her last sight of it, 
which had been in the light of George’s lantern 

[252] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

when he had come to tell her of his programme. 
There was a dark patch on the floor where the lamp 
had been smashed in their struggle and the oil spilt 
She mastered the aversions which swept over her, 
and was aware of an immense weariness which ad¬ 
vanced upon her senses in successive, increasing 
waves. She did not want to sleep before she was 
sure the Chinese river-pirate was safe, and her anx¬ 
iety for him effectively banished the possibility of 
rest. 

Presently she went on deck, and waited with the 
silent, watching men. She heard the firing which by 
its position told roughly of the progress of the 
flight and George’s efforts to bring it to an end. 
It was an anxious ten minutes, that waiting, and 
it showed her rather clearly that she was even 
more worried over the welfare of the young man 
than she had ever been over anything else. But she 
could not or would not explain it. 

At last they heard the activity about the boat 
and the sound of voices. He had reached it, and 
the battle of Terschelling was at an end. Jacque¬ 
line waited until the boat came alongside before go¬ 
ing below again, instinctively realizing that he would 
not want to see her yet, and knowing that whatever 
the ridiculous position of his loving her meant as 
fas as he was concerned, to her it could not amount 
to much. She was not at all sure that she did not 
return that love, and it was not solely because of the 
things he had done for her. But time and a return 
[ 2 53 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

to the normal would show. If she did it would not 
surprise her, for the force of his personality had 
struck her that night of the bal masque, even though 
it had been on the eve of the great adventure and 
immediately after her morning’s ordeal in the police 
court. 

This reminded her again of the young cad who 
had made her suffer, and it occurred to her that 
the Sutton gang, Black Peter, George, and Black 
Peter’s son, were, taking one with another, about as 
complete a set of scoundrels as one could imagine. 
The Chinese river-pirate seemed to have effectively 
smashed it up, thus doing the work she had set out 
to do. It hurt her pride, but it was true—and 
further it was true that she could not have done it 
unaided. If it had not been for his sudden appear¬ 
ance in the thick of it she would even now be on 
her way to the South Pacific. 

B. J., for his part, found himself to be profoundly 
grateful to Jacqueline for staying below deck and 
not facing him with the necessity of dealing with 
what was to be by far the most difficult situation 
in the whole string of difficult situations. He knew 
that he had got to disillusion her; he knew what 
the result would be; and he could see little use in 
continuing to live. 

George, whom he interviewed, discovered him to 
be in a ferocious frame of mind, and, considering 
that his own was far from pleasant, little was 
effected but an exchange of abuse. The nineteenth 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


baronet was angry with himself for jumping into a 
boat without looking carefully at it first. The 
whole solid foundation which he had built had sud¬ 
denly been swept from beneath his unwary feet like 
a castle of sand before the incoming sea. He lay 
bound in his own bunk, aboard his own yacht, and 
realized by slow and painful degrees that he had 
absolutely nothing left in the world but the prospect 
of a considerable number of years behind the un¬ 
interesting walls of one of his Majesty’s prisons. 
And all because the son of his late partner had 
chosen to put a few spokes in the wheels of his ma¬ 
chinery without his noticing them. That that ma¬ 
chinery had been stopped by them he knew, and now 
he was only too aware of them. 

“What about the girl?” he had asked his captor, 
keeping his smile at its broadest. 

“I’m going to marry her,” said B. J., and scowled 
because he knew he never would. 

“Faugh!” remarked the nineteenth baronet. 
“You! And does she know who you are? Does 
she know that you were hand in glove with the old 
man ?” 

“I wasn’t. You ought to know.” 

“I ought. Yes. But am I going to tell her 
that?” 

“No. You’re not going to get the chance, even 
if you’d take it. She has no interest at all in rep¬ 
tiles, caged or uncaged. I am not sure whether I 
am going to tell her that you are on board or not.” 
[ 255 ] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“I wish-” began George, in a particularly 

vicious voice, which B. J. cut short. 

“Wish on, Macduff,” he said, and left him. It 
had given him a little satisfaction to let the nine¬ 
teenth baronet think that he was triumphant. He 
learnt from Tom that the girl wished to see him. 

“What does she want to see me for?” asked B. J. 

Tom looked at him in faint surprise, for the only 
word which accurately would have described the 
young man’s air was “nervous.” 

“Well, if you ask me,” said Tom, “I should say 
she’d been fretting about you.” 

“Fretting? Huh!” commented B. J., and went 
below to what had been the mate’s cabin. The 
thought that that victim of adventure was impris¬ 
oned, along with the two men whom the nine¬ 
teenth baronet had left on board, in the yacht’s hold 
amid the stores that were going out to furnish the 
kingdom in the South Pacific did not cause him any 
discomfort. 

He was dead tired after the exhausting efforts 
of the last few hours. He had come to a mental 
blank wall. Again and again he strove to imagine 
what he was going to say to Jacqueline and what 
Jacqueline was going to say to him. She would 
be looking at him while he stumbled along with the 
stupid story which would sound so incredible and 
with which he hoped to convince her, and he would 
see only her eyes and the inevitable expression in 
them. He lay for hours seeking the forgetfulness 
[256] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 


of sleep which would not come. The steady beat of 
the yacht’s engines, taking her away from Terschel- 
ling and the six lusty henchmen who were questing 
the sands in vain, drummed on his ears. As the 
dawn came he slept fitfully, twisting and turning be¬ 
tween the blankets and muttering incoherently. At 
eight o’clock he awoke from the doze, and realized 
the impossibility of wooing sleep until he had seen 
the girl and discovered the exact measure of his fate. 

He washed, shaved, and dressed, and drank a cup 
of hot and stimulating tea, tea which only the small 
cook of the Old Dog could have manufactured; 
then, feeling considerably more himself, he went on 
deck. On his way he passed the door of Jacque¬ 
line’s cabin, through which he had heard George’s 
matrimonial programme and through which he had 
burst to interrupt it. He looked at it and smiled an 
early morning smile, and went to inspect the day. 
He found Tom on the bridge, full of enthusiasm for 
the way in which the yacht behaved herself. The 
eternal grey of the North Sea surrounded the ship, 
and astern B. J. saw the familiar lines of the Old 
Dog, which, in the hands of the mate, was escorting 
them to Southampton. For B. J. had decided that 
the girl should at least have the satisfaction of re¬ 
turning to the port she had left with the results of 
the expedition, even if it was with only one discom¬ 
fited rogue instead of a shipload of discomfited 
Soviet gun-runners. 

“Where are we?” he asked Tom. 

[257] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“Off the Belgian coast, somewhere around 
Ostend.” 

“Ostend,” said B. J. thoughtfully. “Ostend.” 

He remembered that the Hotel Splendide, Os¬ 
tend, harboured the one man in the world who could 
be trusted to deal with the nineteenth baronet as the 
nineteenth baronet should be dealt with. That man 
was his father. The sudden thought of landing 
George at Ostend occurred to him, but it was a point 
that he would have to discuss with the girl, since 
George was obviously her prize. He could not es¬ 
cape the feeling that to deliver up the smiling one 
to the man he had double-crossed would be a stroke 
of poetic justice. 

“I think we might heave to for an hour,” he said 
to Tom. 

The Grimsby man nodded and pulled over the 
lever of the engine-room telegraph. He was be¬ 
coming accustomed to B. J.’s erratic manner of trav¬ 
elling about the North Sea. 

II 

There have been in the course of B. J.’s story 
many unexpected turns, and now, at a time when the 
rest of it might seem straightforward, when the 
end, the logical end, might have been said to be in 
sight—for it is obvious that Jacqueline could have 
had no alternative but to have accepted B. J.’s ex¬ 
planations—we have a manifestation of the ever- 
[258] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


whimsical Fates. One might imagine that one of 
the old women, passing the final threads of this 
story through her bony fingers and finding them too 
straight and too smooth for her liking, forthwith 
knotted them, and, leering somewhat, poked her 
fellow-Fates in the ribs to draw their attention to 
the Wise Bird and those on board. 

The knot came to the Wise Bird and those on 
board her in this wise. 

Albert de Vere had been too tired the night be¬ 
fore to tell “Arfer” Accrington just exactly what 
he thought of him, and awakening at about eight- 
thirty turned over in his bunk, yawned, and catch¬ 
ing sight of his friend’s smooth and unruffled coun¬ 
tenance threw a boot at it by way of producing in 
the owner of it a sufficient consciousness to compre¬ 
hend the judgment he proposed to deliver. The 
boot landed somewhere in the neighbourhood of 
“Arfer’s” lean chest. He grunted and awoke. 
Then he found the boot, and returned it with more 
force than that which Albert had used. It fetched 
Albert de Vere out of his bunk and across the cabin, 
swearing as only a Cockney gutter-rat can swear, 
intent single-heartedly upon slaughtering his friend 
in the quickest and most efficient manner possible. 

The next minute saw them rolling over and over 
on the floor of the cabin with most of the portable 
fittings of it impeding the progress of the fight. In 
addition, Albert endeavoured to tell “Arfer” what 
he thought of him above the sounds of battle, the 

[259] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

whole effect being an uproar which echoed alarm¬ 
ingly from one end of the ship to the other. 

Jacqueline heard it as she put the last hairpin in 
its place, and in view of the incidents of the night 
and the day before can be forgiven for taking a 
serious view of it. She pulled on her sea-boots, 
searched wildly for a moment for her automatic, 
and then remembered that George had taken it 
from her. With some impetuousness she ran out of 
her cabin, and on the way to the companionway 
passed the main saloon and saw the missing auto¬ 
matic lying on the table. It was a mater of seconds 
only to seize it, ascertain that it was loaded, and run 
up the companionway two steps at a time. 

She reached the deck at the precise moment that 
B. J. arrived at the bottom of the bridge ladder— 
also with a pistol in his hand. It was unfortunate 
that he too should have taken a serious view of the 
uproar and found it incumbent upon him to draw his 
revolver. If he thought anything at all he thought 
that the prisoners had in some way escaped from 
the hold and were causing trouble. 

His right foot touched the deck as Jacqueline saw 
him, and his left as she realized that he was hold¬ 
ing a revolver. As he turned she saw his face, and 
it was the face of the son of Black Peter. 

It could mean only one thing—that there had 
been a hitch, and the Communist organization had 
taken steps, that this man was leading them. With 
[260] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

creditable promptitude she shot him in the right 
shoulder. 

B. J. spun round, the revolver clattering on the 
deck, and sagged forward a moment. Then he 
seemed to pull himself together, and faced her 
again, an expression of comprehension mingled with 
pain creeping across his face. 

“You’re getting quite good at shooting at your 
lovers,” he said, and dropped at her feet, turning 
over on his back and clutching his shoulder. “Any¬ 
way,” he added, in a voice that was rapidly failing, 
“Pm-going-to-make-love-to-you-some-day.” 

Then he fainted, and the old woman who had tied 
the knot in the threads of his story crowed gleefully. 

The girl stood absolutely still for a moment, fight¬ 
ing through the jumbled ruins of preconceived ideas 
for new ones fit to explain facts which she only 
dimly understood. All she knew was that she had 
shot a man who was two men: one she hated and 
one she loved; one the cad who had humiliated her 
and outwitted her, the other the amazing gentleman 
who had chosen to rescue her from something rather 
worse than death. With a puzzled gesture she 
passed a hand over her eyes, and saw that there 
were men all about her, and that the captain had left 
the bridge and was helping the unconscious B. J. to 
his feet. 

“What the devil have you been at?” the Grimsby 
man shouted at her. “You’ve killed him or dam 
[261] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


near it! Give me a hand, Tomlinson. What was 
that row for’ard?” 

“Accrington and that de Vere lad,” said one of 

them. “We separated them. Some argument or 
other.” 

Into the stunned girl’s memory came the words 
that the Chinese river-pirate had used before the 
fight on Terschelling. This was what he had meant 
when he had said that she would never love him. 
He knew how she hated the son of Peter Sutton, and 
—and—he was the son of Peter Sutton. What, 

then, had changed him—changed his role in the 
adventure ? 

With a certain clearness of understanding she 
saw that the only person in the world who could tell 
her was the young man himself, and with a sudden, 
overwhelming emotion—this she did not under¬ 
stand—she believed that everything was right, and 
as it should be; that the man she knew as the Chi¬ 
nese river-pirate was no scoundrel, however much 
the superficial facts of the beginning might show 
that he was. It was a belief that arose from no tan¬ 
gible proof, for there was, if one looked at it, as 
much evidence for it as against it. It was simply be¬ 
lief, and confidently blind. 

It was Jacqueline, therefore, who dressed the 
flesh wound in B. J.’s shoulder with hands that were 
sure and efficient from three years’ experience as 
a V.A.D. nurse. Tom watched her, and grunted 
approval at the manner in which she did it, in spite 
[262] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


of his disgust that she should have shot the man 
who had gone to such trouble on her account. It 
was *0 his simple mind just damned foolishness, but 
no business of his. 

As the girl finished her task Albert de Vere 
came into the cabin. He looked at the pale face 
of his master lying in his bunk, and then at 
Jacqueline. 

“They say as ’ow you’ve shot ’im,” he said. 
“You ’ave shot him. Wot the ’ell came over you?” 

The girl recognized him at once. The last time 
she had seen him had been during those early but 
memorable hours of the morning when she had 
stolen the Krein-Sutton papers from the flat in Half 
Moon Street. She further realized that if she had 
seen him last night she would have at once connected 
him with the Suttons, and made inquiries that would 
have resulted in a very different meeting with his 
master. She looked at him now, and could not face 
the scorn in his little sharp eyes. She answered 
him idiotically with words that seemed almost an 
insult. 

“Yes. I shot him. But I didn’t mean to.” 

“Didn’t mean to!” said Albert, and almost spat. 

Jacqueline turned to Tom and said: 

“I want to talk to him—would you mind?” 

Tom nodded, and went out of the cabin, leaving 
the unconscious B. J. in the presence of the two 
people in the world who loved him best. I think 
this subtle fact was Albert de Vere’s subconscious 

[263] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

reason for telling the girl the whole story from the 
moment he had picked B. J.’s pocket of the precious 
wallet at the coffee-stall by Hyde Park Corner. 

“An’ if ever he asks you, miss,” he said, “tell 
’im that Pm the only one in the trade ’oo can pick 
a man’s pocket—’is inside pocket—when ’e’s got 
’is coat on.” 

He even showed her the letter from Peter Sutton 
to his son which had so upset his master’s tranquil 
mind, for as an efficient valet Albert de Vere knew 
exactly where to lay hands on it. 

Jacqueline read it through. Unless one went to 
the extreme of suspicion it was obvious from the 
whole tone of it that the young man had had no idea 
what the packet contained—what the nature of the 
papers was. He was merely instructed by a father 
who threatened to put him in an office to look after 
the packet he enclosed, and the son had looked after 
it to the best of his ability—as she knew only too 
well. 

“He did not know that his father was on the point 
of being wanted by the police?” she asked Albert. 

Albert shivered, as was his wont at the sound of 
the word “police,” and said: 

“ ’E didn’t know anythink about it till the night 
’o the ’op—the fancy-dress ’op at your place.” 

“Before it or after it?’ 

“After. ’E ’ad ’is suspicions before, though. 
We could see as ’ow there was somethink smelly 
goin’ on—fishy like. He found out at the ’op that 
[264] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


the ole man ’ad put ’is foot in it, and he warned ’im 
immediate ’e got back to the ’otel. Told ’im to 
come an’ see ’im directly. The ole chap came like a 
bird, an’ spilled the beans—quick. The boss is a 
devil for gettin’ ’is way.” There was a note of 
fond pride in the small man’s voice. 

The girl nodded. It was surprisingly simple, as 
all apparently complex things turn out to be. The 
apparently simple are always the most difficult and 
intricate. She sat on the chair by the bunk and 
studied the lines of B. J.’s face. They were emi¬ 
nently satisfactory, and she saw in them all that she 
had imagined in the Chinese river-pirate. Things 
of which she had vaguely dreamed now sprang into 
the fullness of understanding in quick, visionary 
flashes. 

Albert de Vere’s extreme irritation with the stu¬ 
pidity and unreliability of women in general and 
Jacqueline in particluar had abated, and he consid¬ 
ered the musing girl with alert eyes. 

“I think I can see as ’ow you come to make the 
mistake,” he volunteered after a lengthy silence. 
“You ’adn’t seen ’im properly before this mornin’.” 

Jacqueline looked up. 

“No. But although it was pitch-dark when he 
took me off the yacht, and darker than that in the 
hut on the sands, there was something familiar 
about him. Everything was too exciting for me to 
be able to connect him with—with—that morning. 
And circumstances were so different then, and he 

[265] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

seemed so different. Oh- But I ought to have 

known! I ought to have known!” 

For the first time she was showing a little of the 
agony of mind that had been growing within her as 
widening comprehension came to her. She rocked 
herself gently to and fro on the chair, her hands 
tightly clenched together and her eyes fixed on the 
face of the unconscious man. 

Albert de Vere considered her with a respectful 
awe which culminated in his saying abruptly: 

“You—you’re sweet on ’im?” 

The girl turned and looked at him without ap¬ 
pearing to realize that he was there. Albert de 
Vere saw the expression in her eyes. 

“Gawd!” he said softly, and went out of the cabin 
as one who, unaccustomed to holy places, leaves a 
church. 

Consciousness returned to B. J. by slow and pain¬ 
ful degrees. It struggled upward from the bot¬ 
tom of a singularly unbroken darkness against 
stabs of blinding light which hurt most abominably. 
After a little these resolved themselves into shoot¬ 
ing pains which started from his shoulder and com¬ 
pleted the circuit of his entire muscular construction 
before expending themselves. They also hurt most 
abominably, and in no instance finished before the 
next one began. He groaned dismally, and with 
some difficulty set about determining who and where 
he was, and what on earth had happened to him. 
He had a feeling that if he could remember how the 
[266] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

pain in his shoulder got there it would go far to¬ 
ward clearing up these mysteries, and he concen¬ 
trated all his attention upon it. He had no diffi¬ 
culty in doing this, for it was about the only thing of 
which he was really conscious. 

Gradually his senses resumed their normal func¬ 
tions, and he realized that he was lying on his back 
and that the edge of a blanket was soft against his 
chin. Also he realized that he had not had any 
breakfast, and was uncommonly hungry. The next 
sensation was that of a sound over and above the 
beating of his own heart which after a certain 
amount of deliberation he decided must be the 
breathing of some one other than himself. He held 
his breath for a moment, and proved the suspicion 
conclusively. He wondered who it was, and this 
started another sense; he wanted to see. 

He opened his eyes, shut them quickly because 
the light hurt, and then opened them again, cau¬ 
tiously. It took him an age to focus them satis¬ 
factorily, but at last he managed it. The moment 
he did he shut them again, because for a number of 
good reasons he felt that he had sufficient evidence 
to disbelieve them. 

For a while he thought it over, and in the process 
memory returned. He remembered who he was 
and what had happened to him. She had shot him. 
It seemed a funny thing to do somehow, and if it 
had not meant moving the shoulder he would have 

laughed. However- 

[267] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


Then, because some of the reasons for disbeliev¬ 
ing his eyes had gone, he opened them again and 
looked into another pair of eyes. They regarded 
him steadily from a point about twelve inches from 
him own, and they were golden in colour—surpris- 
ingly golden. 

“ ’Straordinary,” he murmured, and began ex¬ 
ploring their surroundings. “Yes,” he added, after 
a moment. “It’s you.” And he saw the girl’s face 
in all its perfection. 

He examined the eyes carefully, until he realized 
with a shock which effectively startled him into com¬ 
plete consciousness that they were misty—misty with 
nothing more or less than tears. 

“For God’s sake!” he said, and tried to raise 
himself on his elbow. But the effort wrenched 
his shoulder and he gave up the attempt 
hurriedly. 

“It’s all right. It’s all right,” he heard her say. 
“Everything is all. right. I promise you. There is 
nothing to worry about.” 

“Worry about?” said B. J. “I wish to heaven 
there wasn’t anything to worry about! You’re sorry 
for me because I am ill, but you’re hating me. I 
know that you think-” 

“Am I hating you?” Her voice was soft, and it 
arrested his attention. It ought to have been hard, 
but it was soft—or was it a delusion caused by the 
pain that was tearing at him? He looked at her 
again. 


[268] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 

“Am I hating you?” she repeated, even more 
softly. 

There was a long pause, and at the end of it B. J. 
said in a voice that he did not recognize as his own: 

“No, you’re not. But oh, my hat! I believe 
you’re loving me!” 

It was no exclamation, but quite an ordinary 
prayer of thanksgiving. After a silence he added in 
a tone of infinite regret: 

“And I can’t make love to you.” 

“I’ll be patient,” said Jacqueline, “and wait.” 

“If you could kiss me-” he said hopefully. 

“I think I can, you dear man.” 

B. J. wondered happily if there could be anything 
in the world that was quite as soft as her lips. 

Ill 

After this, of course, B. J.’s story becomes very 
much like yours or mine or anybody else s. There 
are, however, one or two things which might be 
worthy of notice. One was George. 

A little while after it had been conclusively 
proved to B. J. that his ramping round the china 
shops had not broken as many plates as he had 
thought, they dealt with the problem of the nine¬ 
teenth baronet. It was a matter for a council of 
war, and Tom, Albert de Vere, and Accrington were 
called to it. They gathered about B. J.’s bunk 
characteristically—Tom quiet and assured, and 

[269] 



THE SUTTON PAPERS 


mildly interested, Albert de Vere alert and thor¬ 
oughly enjoying the discussion—for he disliked the 
unfortunate George with no uncertain feeling—and 
“Arfer” leaning, placidly thoughtful, against the 
cabin door. Between the five of them they arrived 
at the conclusion that the farther George was kept 
from the shores of his long-suffering country the bet¬ 
ter, and that, if they brought him to the bar of jus¬ 
tice, justice, being as usual blindfolded, would re¬ 
quire the whole story. And there were several 
things in it that were not constitutional. Also B. 
J. was the son of Black Peter, and as such might 
easily get involved in the debacle that pleasant 
scoundrel had left behind him and of which the 
extent was practically unknown. 

Jacqueline was one of the first to approve of 
B. J.’s plan of landing the nineteenth baronet at 
Ostend, and since they were within an hour of that 
port it seemed an obvious way of getting rid of him. 
He was therefore given a twenty-pound note and the 
companionship of Mr. and Mrs. Davis and the two 
sailors who had not been among the six to land at 
Terschelling, and put overboard in one of the 
yacht’s boats from which the name had been care¬ 
fully erased. The twenty-pound note was taken 
from the cash-box in which was most of his negoti¬ 
able wealth—some four hundred pounds of it— 
which had been on its way to form the cash currency 
of the kingdom in the Pacific. 

B. J. had the theory that a place at which they 
[270] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


were likely to change the note would be one of the 
big hotels—maybe the Hotel Splendide. But they 
never learnt. He may never have reached Ostend 
with his oddly assorted friends, and although they 
watched the columns of the Continental Daily Mail 
for news of an unknown man being found at Ostend 
with a bullet in his back they watched in vain. 

The rest of the money in the cash-box was added 
to a large lump of Black Peter’s thirty-seven thou¬ 
sand pounds and sent to St. Dunstan’s. This char¬ 
ity was suggested by Albert de Vere, who said caus¬ 
tically that “Bein’ blind, pore devils, they won’t see 
the colour of the money.” This, however, seemed 
beside the point, since it was obvious that the money 
would change its colour the moment it was possible 
for it to appear on the cheques of St. Dunstan’s. 

The Wise Bird ultimately became the proud pos¬ 
session of the crew of the Old Dog, who made a 
lot of money with her as a passenger-service boat 
running between Tilbury and the East Coast sum¬ 
mer resorts. 

About a month after the last bandage was taken 
from B. J.’s shoulder a letter came to him from an 
unpronounceable town in South America, redirected 
by the Post Office to the house in Carlton House 
Terrace, where B. J. stayed until his marriage with 
Jacqueline Chester. It was from his father, and 
from it they gathered that there was a lot of money 
to be earned as a live wire in the Presidential chair 
of San Sutemayo, and that, as an enterprising busi- 
[271] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 

ness man, Pedro the Benevolent, as he was now 
known, was taking full advantage of it. Further 
was the surprising news that Miriam Blanchard was 
on her way out to him, devout in her intention of 
sharing his life and the business opportunities of the 
Presidential chair. 

IV 

It was the third or fourth evening after the ar¬ 
rival of this letter that B. J. stole Jacqueline away 
and took her to the Italian Roof Garden at the Cri¬ 
terion. They sat together at one of the small tables 
that are separated one from another by low par¬ 
titions which give an air of intimacy to the whole 
place that is unusual and pleasing. They ate a 
thoughtful, well-chosen little dinner, drinking a fra¬ 
grant Chateau-Yquern. 

B. J. watched the girl happily, realizing that her 
appreciation of the soft, rose-coloured lights, the 
good food and the wine, and the excellent orchestra 
was not a whit less than his own. She had not once 
searched the other tables for a girl in a frock that 
was like her own; not, indeed, that such a thing was 
conceivable. Her own was shimmering silver and 
of a delicate softness that delighted the heart and 
gave the wonder of her eyes and her dark hair their 
proper value. 

When they had finished their ices—glorious 
among ices—they danced to the, quiet, haunting 
[272] 


THE SUTTON PAPERS 


waltz that ushered in the dancing and struck the 
note on which it was to proceed. It symbolized 
the tranquil waters into which they had come after 
the turbulent grey of heavy seas. As B. J. danced 
he knew that the precious being in his arms held 
happiness for him, and that it was all very miracu¬ 
lous and wonderful. 

When the last chord of the tune died away they 
returned to their table, and talked together, looking 
often into each other’s eyes and seeing therein the 
light which had been kindled in the storm and which 
had burnt steadily through it. They discussed love 
as lovers have discussed it from the beginning, and 
with all the knowledge of those blinded by its radi¬ 
ance. They spoke slowly and with long intervals, 
silent in the realization that the threshold of the 
great companionship was beneath their feet. 

B. J. summed it up. 

“It’s all rather weird and extraordinary—the 
whole thing, I mean,” he said. 

The girl smiled, her eyes thoughtful with a brood¬ 
ing happiness. 

They were married the next day, and it was when 
they returned from their honeymoon that they came 
to see me. They sat together on the rug in front 
of my study fire with the firelight flickering on their 
faces, and told me the story. I noticed that the 
girl’s eyes were particularly golden. 

THE END 

[273] 






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